Obsession
by DemonTsunami
Summary: If you ever craved the depraved, lusted for the demented, then you and Harley have a lot in common. She crosses lines that weren't meant to be crossed and does it with a smile. Dive into a horrific romance that curdles your spine and stimulates your darkest urges. Love the villian, screw the rules.
1. Chapter 1: We're All Mad Here

A/N: So here I am publishing another unfinished story in leui of finishing my other darling fic-lets. Aren't I a stinker? So many haters for the Joker and Harley of Suicide Squad and while I can't fault them I still felt a mad inspiration from the demented duo, who doesn't love a bit of lust and fireworks? Ahh...but whatever, here is my take on the maddenly obsessed coupling that did each other more harm than good (because come on, this isn't some fate in the stars love this is darkness and dementia made flesh peeps). Straight from my brain pan I present...

 ** _OBSESSION ◇_**

 **CHAPTER ONE: We're All Mad Here...**

I knew he was coming. Every time I blinked I saw that smile, a flash of silver in a sea of white, eyes as black and mad as his scribbled tattoos. His laugh was echoing in the back of my head on constant repeat, a mad, wild thing that trilled and cackled, running a current of excited fear in my blood. My belly twisted, churning in volatile fear and desire as I opened the small window in my two bedroom apartment and smelled the crackling damp of a storm brewing in the polluted, smoggy city air. Soon. He would come soon. A whimsical smile played on my lips as I twisted one of my blonde bangs around my finger.

Totally infatuated with the idea of being hunted down like a animal. I must be insane. I have a thing for danger, for bad things, that often leads me to seedy places filled with monsters and darkness. Like Arkham, the place I'd chosen to work. It wasn't my only choice, but I loved working with the inmates. All the chains and danger. The cages, screams and smell of blood and urine. The sweet edge between madness and sanity being studied in a dark hole of criminal depravity. I've almost been killed twice by my patients but it's not a frivolous risk, both case studies were publicized. If not for them I never would have met the Joker. I bite my lip until it bleeds at the very thought. The blood tastes like pennies, it reminds me of him and I sigh wistfully.

Yeah, my tastes run a little towards the macabre. In Gotham the dark is easy to find, and even easier to get lost in. I spin from the window, ever perky, and see Isabelle staring at me with my frown. The woman has been cleaning my apartment every second Tuesday since I got the place three years ago, there's this worry on her face. Like she knows he's coming too, but she can't possibly. After all, it's our little secret. Mister J would be so angry if I told, and I ain't no snitch. Besides, it's Gotham, I ain't got nobody to snitch to.

"Are you okay, Miss Quinzel?" Isabelle asks softly, her accent is light and soothing.

"I love the rain," I confess, adding in what I hope is a casual manner, "You can skip the master bedroom, I have my work sort of on display there. See, I have a really involved new case and I don't think you want to see some of the pictures." There's a bright smile on my face, and Isabelle just nods slowly. She knows I work with criminals, she won't snoop, hopefully.

I wander into the kitchen and pour a cup of water straight from the tap, the chill slides down my throat, soothing the occasional rawness I still feel from being choked so violently a few weeks prior. My fingers graze the still healing bruises, tracing the fading yellow green splotches that linger weeks after. A benefit of pale skin, if I close my eyes I can still feel his hands on me, squeezing out my life as he whispers roughly in my ear all the deviant, painful agonies he's planning just for me. I'm smiling again, like a schoolgirl with a crush, and the thought of him making good on all his creative threats makes me blush.

A emergency news feed is scrawling across the TV, it's been playing on and off for days but I turn it off of the mute setting after a few seconds, because they're showing new photos. It seems someone was naughty and used the machine gun I so nicely gave him to slaughter a few families. Their mangled bodies stare at me with lifeless accusation. One of the shots shows a blonde girl with blue eyes. It seems she got more than bullets, a too wide smile carved across her mouth, coated in blood, she looks barely a day over fifteen. I snap off the screen, disgusted.

"Serves you right for being in his way," I huff, a sick part of me jealous she caught his attention. My feet carry me to my room on autopilot and I allow it, closing the door firmly behind me.

There's a baseball bat propped at the end of my bed, for safety, although I'm not half bad at batting either. I pick it up, idly swinging it a few times, imagining myself using it soon. Very soon. He's coming and he's promised not to play nice. Not that he ever does, but in Arkham there was still some illusion of safety in his proximity. Even strapped up in a straight jacket, hands cuffed, he'd managed to get on top of me, straight jacket torn, cuffs tossed aside, his strong slender fingers around my throat as he slammed me against my office floor. Bouncing my head off the hard floor in jarring cracks again and again, wicked laughter ringing my ears and making me dizzy. As if his body being ground into my own didn't already leave me breathless enough, he began choking me.

Gently at first. Then harder, until I cried and gagged. Then softly again; his wet tongue licking at my split lip like a cat with a bowl of cream. He continued his 'treatment' for quite some time, alternating between fierce and gentle leisurely, his torn jacket flapping at his side, tattooed arms bared and showcasing the wiry muscle that seemed to carry a inhuman strength. He was having fun, I know because he told me, a sparkle in his eye.

"This treatment is just the beginning doc. You're far from cured," he informed me in a faux nasal tone that mocked and grated. "Although this first session shows promise. Take two injections of me daily, pudding, and you'll be right as rain in a few weeks."

Gosh I'm mushy, I muse, my blue fingernail tracing his profile in one of the many glossy polaroids pinned to my wall. It's beginning to look more like a shrine, with all the closeups, and less like a case file, but I can't stop adding to it. I stare at them when I lay in bed, they help me sleep and...accomplish other things.

Another blush. I'm naughty. It's not the same as being evil. Mister J is evil, and that's what makes him special. Gives him that glow. Most people view madness as a weakness. I've been guilty of it more than a few times, but Mister J's madness makes him invincible. A demon of chaos amongst us petty mortals. I sigh wistfully, flopping back on my bed, bat still in hand, my mind stuck on repeat of fear and lust, disgust and desire, they swirl into a heady mix and I wriggle in anticipation. More terrified and more turned on than I've ever been in my life.

I watched all the reports yesterday when he escaped. Blood hammering in my ears, nailing through the veins in my wrist and neck as they showed him ripping through Arkham personnel and fellow inmates alike. His eyes gleaming, teeth flashing as he spilled blood and smeared chaos. To him they are bread and butter, sustenance to his very primal existence. He's going to do that to me someday, smear me like a bug against the window glass of his madness, and I bet I leave a big bloody smear, because I don't plan on going gently. I going to fight, tooth and nail, let him see that I'm more than some little lost girl trapped in this acid dream that Gotham has become, a trippy nightmare world of happy mayhem and sad normality. I want to feel his blood under my nails, just once, to dig into him the way he almost effortlessly wiggled into me. I don't think I'll ever scratch a dent in the hardened chaos he's crafted of, but I want to at least try.

I sigh, my lips puffing out an exhale, my limbs stretching from my fingertips to my toes, like a cat waking up from a sunshine nap. I stand abruptly, too full of nervous energy to let myself remain still. In the distance it sounds, a siren, wailing like a baby, hungry and afraid. Sirens are no stranger to my senses, you can't pass more than a few hours without one going off in this city, but this one feels different. Goosebumps pop out on my skin, and I find myself staring at the photos on my wall, those maniacal eyes peer back without seeing but they still stare deep inside me all the same. All the while managing to look right through me. Suddenly, a chorus strikes up, music to my ears, so many sirens… I run to my window, wondering, hoping, dreading… Yes! There it is, that egotistical white light in the sky, etching out a shape of a bat, visible even in the light polluted evening of Gotham. It's him! It has to be!

Oh shit. It's _him_. I'm so doomed. I'm like doomed to the millionth power, multiplied by screwed and added to royally fucked. My grip on my bat turns sweaty, I twist it like a baton, a idiotic grin lifting up my lips. Crap on a cracker, this is it. I can't wait. Still, now that it's here I'm feeling all sorts of mortal. Psych 101, survival instinct, and it revs me up to a adrenaline peak, my skin breaking out in a cold sweat as I feel my heartbeat hammer in my throat.

"Miss Quinzel?" Isabelle, her accented voice is timid, full of anxiety. She raps softly on the door, and her gentle motion pushes it open, and before I can react she's there, staring at the thing I didn't want her to see. "Madre dos dios," she whispers, taking in my shrine slash case profile slash obsession with wide eyed fright. I realize suddenly that I'm scary, not like sad scary, which is what I'm used to. No, I'm the sort of scary that unnerves people.

"I told you not to look," I point out in exasperation.

"This man-"

"Mister J, he's a lunatic, and my current patient," I snap defensively. Her big brown eyes are on me, like a kicked dog. Jeez, I'm so painfully aware of how sick I am staring at her expression. They'll lock me up next, the doctor becomes the patient….

"I will go," she stares at the pictures, back at me, the pictures. "He's not a good man, Miss Quinzel." She says it almost like a plea. A bubble of laughter scrambles out of my throat, and it's strained and crackled like a wild thing I didn't even know existed inside me.

"Course not," I wipe a few stray tears from my eyes, and try to fight another giggle at her look of horror.

"I will not come back here, Miss, this is not good, I can not be part of…this," she gestures at the madman on my wall. I shrug.

"Suite yourself."

"You should not be looking at this man, not like this," her gaze lingers at the big lipstick heart doodled around one photo I find myself staring at too often. It's a rare color photo, with his vibrant green hair mussy, eyes bloodshot and wide, his smile is so big it's half his face. I purse my lips.

"It's my work," I lie, because I hate that she knows. Part of me even hates myself for feeling these things, but I can't cut out my feelings anymore than I can take down those pictures. Mister J is a drug, and I'm a full blown addict. One part denial, two parts desire.

"God bless, Senora," She tells me, and I giggle then. Ah, the big ol' 'G' word, like that guy ever paid me a moment of attention. I bet I'm like the gum on his shoe, something he can't wait to scrape off. I stopped praying years ago, but the man upstairs stopped listening way before that.

"Yeah, same to you," I snap back, my tone insulting. She gives me a sad shake of her head, and I pretend I care, because I really don't. There's more to life than this sad little cycle everyone is trapped in, hamsters running their wheel, unaware they are getting nowhere fast. She turns, leaving, and I stick out my tongue, feeling juvenile but free. Isabelle is probably the only person left in my life that isn't part of my work, and with her gone there's only this madness left. This sweet, spectacular madness free of judgement and prying eyes.

I hear the explosion before the walls tremble. Isabelle screams, her curvy body stumbling to the ground, and I feel suddenly protective of the woman I was too eager to rid myself of moments before. This is my fight. I brought this here. This hell is mine, because I tempted the devil, and the devil loves to give into temptation. I don't want to see her ripped apart, but I recognize that that outcome isn't exactly my choice. He's here. Blood and hellfire, the sound of automatic weaponry spitting through the air, and I hear the voice that narrates my dreams, magnified by a amplifier, a megaphone probably.

"Will Miss Quinzel please report to the lobby? Dr. Quinzel? Your patient is in." He says the last like a threat and I shiver.

I close my eyes, a slow smile spreading even as my knees tremble in fear and desire. When I open them, Isabelle is staring at me with pure horror.

"He's such a sweet talker," I tell her, and with a sudden impulse I help her up, pushing her behind me. "Go under the bed, I'll lead him away, if I can…" Can I? My brain bubbles, full of emotion and dry of thought. Maybe...My bat raises, battle mode. I walk through my apartment, a skip in my step, and jump a foot in the air as my intercom buzzes. Curious, I waltz over to the little plastic box, my head tilted as I frown.

I clear my throat, adorning my best doctor voice, "Yes?"

The box crackles back, and then a woman's scream tears through, long and anguished. A loud bang of a pistol and it dies off abruptly. "Miss me, puddin?" I lean against the wall, stroking the button for a moment before I'm sure of my reply.

"Can't miss what you never had, Mister J," I tell him, smirking because I know that's not what he wants to hear. I'm such a bad girl, so naughty. He's going to get me for that.

"Careful, I'm not in the mood for your back talk," he warns, snarling mad.

"I'm in the mood, I'm _always_ in the mood," I tell the box, "Hey Mister J?" A long silence lapses, maybe he's grown bored of the intercom. I say the rest anyway, "Tag, you're it!" I giggle, this game is fun. I love games. I didn't always, but lately…lately I want to play.

The box crackles. "One...two…." he begins counting, and my pulse spikes. How many counts do I get? Doesn't matter, he'll probably cheat anyway. I dash away from the speaker box, tearing open my door and staring at the tenants of other apartments hesitantly peeking from their doors.

"Better get a weapon!" I yell at them, "He's coming up!" I run towards the left, because if he can cheat, so can I. I know there's a fire escape, and I ignore the warning signs, nearly deafened by the blaring alarm as I shove through the emergency door and the first gust of chilled autumn air, ripe with smoke, hits my sweat flushed skin. I feel alive. So miraculously, beautifully alive. I stare down the rickety metal stairs that lead down the building, searching for his cronies. He always travels with a crowd. There's a few thuggish looking types hanging out at the bottom of the alley and I frown, biting my lip. If I'm going to die, I deserve to die by him. I've never killed anyone before. Not even in self defense. Maybe I'm not capable of it…

Only one way to find out.

Stealing myself, I take a few deep gulps of oxygen, there's this annoying voice inside my head, and she sounds all sorts of reasonable. She's the me I was before him. The smart, put together Harleen, with her quid pro quo logic and lightning quick analytics. She's muttering than I'm totally bonkers, and that I need to go back inside and play it safe. Try to hide. I snort. Maybe I'm better off without her. I can't hide, this is _tag_ , not _hide and seek_. Besides, where can I possibly hide that I won't be found? I can kill. I bet it's easy. Like swatting a fly. I make careful tip toes down the creaky metal ladder, grateful for the squealing sirens, smoke and screams. They disguise my progress, swallowing up the screech of the grating metal as I loose the first of many ladders. Halfway down I realize I'm barefoot, and that the metal is icing my vulnerable feet. Too late for that now, though.

I'm almost on the thugs. One of them has purple hair, spiked up, his face painted in a poor emulation of Mister J. The other is bald, sporting more piercings than I can count, and more muscle than I feel comfortable with. Still, a girl's gotta show some spirit. I'll go for baldy first, paint his brains across the alley, and hope his friend it less agile than he seems. Decided, I cock back the bat, planning to jump and swing in one motion, but something stops me. A flicker of a shadow on a shadow, and before I can swallow my anxiety both men drop to the ground, like puppets with their strings cut. Hey, no fair…

"Run," a low voice growls, and I stare up into the visage of the caped crusader himself. Mister J's sworn enemy, the very bane of his existence… He's scaling the ladder before I can react, gone in a flash. I scowl, feeling jipped.

"Spoil sport," I mutter. The voice inside my head is super happy he was there. All hero-like with impeccable timing. I ignore her, she's a idiot. What now? I ponder that apt question for a moment before jumping down, the landing smarts, and I think I slice open my feet on something sharp. The speckled blood my feet leave behind confirms my guess, and I shiver, realizing I'm wearing nothing more than a thin white cotton t-shirt and a pair of comfy jeans. Hardly spectacular threads. I'm a little disappointed in myself, because I'm not dressed for the occasion, but the moment passes and I slink around the building, peeking around the corner and spotting something that makes all my nerve endings spark to high alert.

No…I couldn't…I'm stuck on a masochistic perma-grin as I realize I have already decided I can, and will. There's this long, beastly looking car, and it's a dark sleek purple with tinted windows. No mistaking that color. It's his. I bet all his lackeys are busy in the building, because I don't spot a single one around the idling car. No one would be stupid enough to steal that car. No one, but maybe me. As I creep closer I notice two unconscious men splayed out in front of the behemoth vehicle. Batsy, as Mister J calls him, up to his tricks. I bit my lip, worrying the flesh between my teeth. This is an unforgivable trespass, he'll do more than kill me for this. It'll be torture, the long, not fun kind. I bet I beg for death before he gives it. I hesitate at the open driver's door, my brain warring a hellish battle between sanity and madness. Madness wins, like always. Sanity whimpers.

I gingerly step into the vehicle, smelling the sweet-smoky scent that I know better than my own smell. It's so indefinable I want to bottle it, submerge in it's acidic tang. I shove my trusty bat into the passenger seat, slamming shut the door with a bang. Something flies through the air, soaring to the earth from stories above, it lands with a hard wet slap in front of the car. My eyes cringe, because I know that long black hair, the brown shawl...Poor Isabelle…I slide the car into reverse, my hands wet with fresh sweat, my head pounding from anxiety and seeping adrenaline.

I wonder if he saw the photos. A blush burns my cheeks, feeling like a schoolgirl caught staring at the boy she likes. Embarrassing. I bet he doesn't even care, I reassure myself, he's seen way crazier things than my sorry little habit. The thought almost makes me sad, but then I remember what I'm sitting in. Well, I bet he's never seen anymore do _this_. I peel out, the engine roaring like a lion, and I feel something roar inside me in response. This feels so right is has to be wrong.

I didn't count on the cops chasing me, but they did. Round and round the city, until I thought I'd be caught for sure. Somehow I managed to lose them under the bridge, probably because news reached them that the car wasn't filled with the actually crown prince of crime but just some measly little girl trying to outrun her own favorite demon. Whatever the reason they eventually gave up, and I found myself idly roaming the streets of Gotham in a car only matched in notoriety by the batmobile itself. I knew better than to overplay my odds, so I left it in a random alleyway, careful to lock it, a naive part of myself hoping that doing so would earn me a few brownie points with the owner. As if. I pocketed the keys, my fingers tracing the silver 'J' keychain in a constant rhythm. It was only then that I realized I had left my apartment without my purse, or cellphone, or anything of use. Except my bat, which I kept with me like a trusted friend.

I knew the part of the city I was in, and I wondered if there was any chance that I could find sanctuary in these filthy parts. Eventually I did, in a squalid crackhouse, the people there eyed me disdainfully but said nothing as I crouched around the crackling trash bin, my fingers seeking warmth. My feet were super numb, but I tried to pretend I didn't care. Like pneumonia couldn't hurt me. After a few hours I found a man apart from the group, he was gnarled with age, and he smelled like a concentrated sewer. One swing from my bat and I answered my earlier moral dilemma. I could kill. It was easy. His skull wasn't so thick, and he barely made a mess. I stole his shoes, even though they were way too big, and snuggled in his large box, trying to ignore the fetid stench of pee and filth. In the morning things would look better, or so I chose to lie to myself.

My dreams are vivid. I wake from them with a start, my heart thudding as I try to process what I saw with what I see now. There's no giant hamster wheel, no Isabelle with her mouth cut into a wide grin reciting the basic principles of the psychopathic mind as she shoves pellets in my mouth, but I can't say what I see now is much better. I'm in a cage. Just like my dream, but not like it, because this isn't a hamster cage with a bottle of blood for water, this is reality, and the cage is probably a dog kennel, much too small for the leggy body squashed inside it. My eyes blink blurry sleep from them, and I see that I'm in a nice hotel room, lavish even, despite the dog kennel I occupy. I can tell it's a hotel room because there's a simple shape to hotels, even the nice ones.

"Good morning Doc, how nice of you to join us." He cackles, and maybe I'm still dreaming, because he's looking at me almost pleasantly, his feet kicked up on the hotel desk, his fingers playing with a knife. I swallow, hard.

"Morning Mister J," I croak, my throat feels funny. I feel fuzzy, disconnected… He must've drugged me, I realize, otherwise how would I have slept through being caged and relocated? I'm not a light sleeper.

"Afternoon," he corrects idly, "You slept through breakfast." His metallic teeth gleam as he smiles at me, his bloodshot eyes riveted on me in a way I only usually dream about. He sighs, slinging his feet down from the desk and walking over to the cage I'm in. He crouches, putting us at eye level, and I feel my heart quicken, he's so beautiful. So evilly perfect. He pokes a finger through the cage, pressing against my forehead, "Tag." He cackles, endlessly amused, and the laughter is a crazed, shrill sound.

"You're not mad?" I venture, hesitant, so aware of my vulnerability. I wish I had my bat. I need it. This is not how I want to die, in a cage, so helpless and unremarkable.

"Oh, of course not doc," he assures me with a slick grin, "I'm positively enraged," his eyes flash, and I wince as he yanks a fistful of my hair through the bars, slamming my head into the sharp metal. My vision goes all dizzy, and something wet is dripping into my left eye, I touch it, and my finger comes back red with blood. "You were very naughty, doc, I'm sad to say I don't think I can tolerate you breathing for much longer after what you did."

"Sorry," I apologize, almost like a reflex. His disappointment tears through me. I was so stupid. I know better. I can't believe I let him down, a part of me wants to die for that. A annoying voice in the back of my head scoffs at the very notion. It seems sane me is back, I wonder where she wandered off to while I killed that guy.

"It's not nice," the joker seethes, "to touch other's things."

"I was only borrowing it," I protest, my lower lip trembling. "Promise."

"Poor little Harleen," he sneers, "Such a poor little victim."

"Don't," I sob. I hate being pitied or seen as weak, and he knows it.

"Just another sad little girl, who dies a sad little death."

"NO!" I snarl, slamming my hand against the cage, I reach through, trying to claw at him through the bars, but he backs away, laughing at my futile attempts.

"There's my puddin'," he crows, pleased. "There's my sweet little Harlequin."

"I'll hate you!" I scream. His laughter dies abruptly.

"No, that's not right," he chides mockingly, sitting cross legged and cocking his head at me, his finger is sliding across the knife, blade end, his finger is wet with blood, it drips hot and thick. He doesn't seem to notice, he's glaring at me.

"You hate yourself, and you hate that you want me, but you certainly don't hate me," his eyes glitter cruelly, his mouth a smug smirk, "I saw your bedroom doc," he tsks bearing down on the cage he leans in, showing a wild smile, "Gosh ain't I flattered?" His fingers loop the bars and blood trickles, his face is inches away and I can hardly breathe. Why is he so beautiful? Vivid with a cascade of emotions and impulse, and behind all that lays brilliant madness, a madness so deep it can drown out all sanity.

When he stands he runs his hands through his hair and cackles once good.

"I think you might have a little bit of a obsession, pudding pop," he's grinning, "You know I was just playing doctor with you right? I don't have any interest in a dull girl like you." He pauses and pretends to consider, "Well killing you might keep me entertained for a while...alright have it your way…" He shrugs and begins to pace.

"What am I to do with you?" He muses jovially to himself, "I will kill you, but how? So many options, I can't quite decide."

"It doesn't matter," I utter dejectedly, realizing it suddenly and brutally. "It never did." I feel bad for myself. For thinking I meant more than a corpse to him, ever. He was sweet when he needed something, but I'm useless now. A mere diversion, short lived and easily forgotten. He'll toss me aside like some broken doll and never contemplate me again. I hate that I'm so meaningless to him, so easily dismissed. I used to be more than what he thought of me, but right now, in this moment, I forget how.

"Now, now, presentation is everything," he tells me chidingly, "Have I taught you nothing?"

"Doesn't matter," I repeat stubbornly, "You don't even care."

"Oh puddin," he eyes me in disgust, "Of course I don't."

"You said you did," I protest, defensive, angry. "You said I could help you."

"I lied," he picks an invisible piece of dust from his jacket and squishes it in his fingers, "I said what I needed to, and you did exactly what I wanted. Because you're so predictable, just like the others. Nothing interesting, nothing even remotely intriguing." I feel a pang at that, and my eyes water, a hot tight feeling in my chest. That's when the annoying voice gets louder, she knows something I don't. She's smart enough to remember the safety pin in my jeans, the pair is so old the button fell off long ago, so I pinned them...I smile, knowing I just need a good distraction, and lucky for me there's enough left of the psychiatrist to know exactly what distracts the sociopathic maniac sitting outside my cage.

"Well, whatever," I puff out, choking back my tears and swallowing them into nothing but the hard pit in my stomach, "I guess batman was right."

"What?" He growls through his metallic teeth, and I know I have his attention. I stifle a giggle, shrugging as upward as I can manage in the tight confines of the cage, my left hand goes to the vee of my jeans, the other grabs the cage, focusing his attention. My years at the circus taught me how invaluable misdirection can be.

"You see," I drawl, "I was going to kill a few of your goons, they were in my way, but the batman got there first, see? He was very heroic, you know, saving me from that." I bite back another giggle as he sneers.

"You killed the homeless man," he challenges, "He didn't save you from anything. You're _my_ creature." His motions are already getting more agitated, he kicks a end table, smashing a foot right through the base.

"Yeah, but the old man attacked first, didn't have a choice," I lie, sneaking my other arm out through the cage, he's too unfocused to notice. The mentioning of the batman does that to him, makes him lose focus. "Besides, he told me something, he said he's getting tired of how predictable you are." I toss his own words back at him, feeling vindictively pleased as they hit their mark.

"You LIE." He roars, pointing at me in fury, within the blink of an eye he's inches from me, separated by bars that I suddenly feel protect me from worse than him shaking the cage, "You filthy lying little skank! He can't predict a thing I do," he spins, standing and resuming his pacing, eyes wild, "He never spoke to you! You're beneath his notice!"

My heart feels like it might explode from the rawness of his anger and how it's making me strongly afraid and desirous all at once. Such passion... I keep it in check as I concentrate, one click of a tumbler down, two to go, "Maybe he did, maybe he didn't…" I sing song. "You want to know what he told me? Because it's super juicy. I mean, he's a bit taciturn, sure, but he thought I was a victim." My eyes burn, I am NOT a victim. I will prove it. "He wanted to calm me down a bit. Tell me what he thought of the big ol' jerk-o hunting me."

"Puddin," he croons, his eye twitching, "Don't tease daddy, you know he didn't say anything."

"He did," I giggle, "He said something, but it was a secret…" I sigh, looking up dramatically as I shrug and click the last click, the lock springs, "So I guess I shouldn't tell."

"YOU WILL TELL ME!" He snarls, losing composure, and he's inches from the cage again, and I can feel my spine tingle with his proximity. How I wish he reacted to me like this. Like I affected him. Still, wishes and horses and all that. I pretend contemplation.

"It's a secret," I whisper, "Come here and I'll tell, promise." He sneers, but after a long, silent moment he leans into my waggled finger, his face nearly pressed against the front of the cage. He doesn't know, and I'd hate to ruin the surprise...With a ferocity I barely knew I possess I slam the cage into his face, opening it abruptly. He staggers back in sitting position. I feel bad, hurting him, but he started it.

"I'm not a victim!" I yell, feeling the hot tears running down my cheeks, but not really caring. How dare he? Making me feel so small, so worthless? Just like _he did_. For a second, just a second, mind you, I really do hate him. I kick his face, wishing his jaw would break, it doesn't. I see my bat, piled up with the rest of the weapons, guns and the like, and I dash for it.

My ankle gets snagged, and I feel my teeth bite carpet, my lungs expelling a sharp sound of pain. He yanks harder, pulling me under him and flipping me over. I can see the manic gleam to his eyes, so feral, so untamed. His skin is pale, flaked due to the chemical burns, his mouth painted blood red. I imagine it's all over now. I see it so clearly, his knife burrowing into my chest, the way I'll gag on the blood...

"Better," he growls, and his lips cover mine in the most brutal kiss I've ever had. It opens me up more than a knife in the chest. His teeth claim, punishing, biting, his tongue nearly chokes me, and I feel his hands capture my wrists, pinning them above my head. I'm helpless, drowning in him, and I fight back, wiggling and kicking, biting and sucking.

"Wowzers," I whimper when he finally lets me suck in a few panting inhales. His laugh is loud, caustic, his eyes bright as he looks down at me with warring contempt and pride.

"Oh puddin', that was just foreplay," he promises, and I feel my stomach flip as he grabs his knife, holding it against my throat. "Wait until I stick ya."

"Mister J?" I pant, breathless. He scowls down at me, and I feel the blade press until blood drips. I don't feel pain, just the wetness of liquid running from the tip of the knife at my throat.

"What?"

"Good night," in his quest for the knife he let go of my wrists, and since I was so close to my bat… Yeah. I watch him slump, feeling proud and so turned on, and so dejected… This is not going to end well, and it's the ending part that has me so sad. Because it will end, eventually. I push his dead weight off me, shocked that I managed to render him momentarily helpless. I can't believe it...I bend down, brushing a stray lock of green from his pale forehead, and plant a soft kiss on his lips, they are a bit metallic tasting from my biting, but that makes it all the sweeter.

"Sweet dreams, Mista J," I whisper.


	2. Chapter 2: Crazy Is, As Crazy Does

**A/N:** Oh wow... Are you still here my crazed little deviants? How delightful. Truth be told I wrote this story mostly for myself and I will be tickle-me-blood-red delighted if anyone likes this story at all. But enough about me, I'm not who you came for, so on with the show, as they say.

 **CHAPTER TWO: Crazy Is, As Crazy Does...**

Crazy people don't know they're crazy

I know I'm crazy

Therefore I'm not, you see?

My madness isn't always sweet. Sometimes it's nasty mean. It spins my head up good. Let's in the things sane me was able to compartmentalize and ignore. I used to be able to slip on this mask, this perfectly done up mask of a normal woman in a pencil skirt and tight ponytail, she did mundane things like sip coffee and try and dig inside the heads of psychotic criminals, to medicate and heal them. It's like a gothic fairy tale, watching in my mind's eye how she met her dark prince, a prince that was really a villain but our sad lonely heroine fell for him nonetheless. This almost normal woman dug into a psyche so dark and twisted in madness that it dug back. It ripped into all the dark, juicy bits of my brain and mushed them up with the logic and would-be good intentions, peeling off the mask of civility to unearth the raw bloody mess of insecure derangement lurking beneath the pretence and viola, here you have me. And ain't I something?

Sometimes I can forget who I was entirely. Sometimes I remember the worst parts. Like the circus I grew up in, the way Freddie's breath smelled when he dug his fingers in my pants and ordered me not to cry so much. Other times I think about how smart I was in school, how I pretended to like those girls who called me friend and imitated all their stupid little trends and hopes. Like I didn't know better, but a part of me always did. There's so much of me crammed inside this one little brain I can feel it cracking under the pressure, and deep inside the deep crevices there's this laughter, because it's all so damn funny. I mean, who am I to pretend that there's anything better than bad? Like I've ever seen anything that wasn't dripping in either malevolence or pseudo niceness. I think Mister J smelled that on me, that sweet stench of decaying faith in sanity, and truth be told he only had to push a little here, poke a little there, and I broke for him like ceramic. I thought for a moment I was reaching him, pulling out the man in the beast, but that was just him encouraging my delusion. And once he had me immersed in his fiction, I never was able to really see much of reality again.

I think about all of this as I consider my next move. The game isn't over. I merely tagged back, you see, and it's my turn to run again. He's just laying there, but I know it won't be for long, so I have to stop reminiscing and start planning. I go to his little stash of toys and I feel that same giddy elation I felt the first time my foster parents brought me to a candy store. Like I want to taste everything the world has to offer me, shove it in a bag and savor it to the last succulent drop. I grab a duffle from the side of the bed, shocked to discover it's jammed with cash. Huh. I toss most out, but not all, I'm not stupid, and start jamming in some neat weapons.

I find a pistol that looks fun, all silver chrome and shiny. Bullets too. A can of mace...I toss that aside with a pout. I can do better. A taser, a set of brass knuckles, I play with a pair of nunchucks but when they hit me in the face I scowl and discard them. There's a super big automatic but I don't know enough about it for it to be that appealing, so I go for a few more handguns of various shapes and munitions, feeling proud of my loot. I zip up the bag and it's heavy. I'm not as weak as I look, I could even run with it if needed. I look back at the sprawled master villain and give him a worried frown before spying the knife he almost dissected me with. Gingerly, tip toeing like a child, I reach down and pluck it from his loose grasp, admiring it's sheen and the sharp curve of the blade. Yeah, I want this. I snatch the sheathe he discarded earlier from the floor and delicately put the blade inside.

Next, I need a outfit. I open his closet and my eyes pop wide. Wowzers. He's got a ton of neat outfits, mostly purple, some black. I rush through his things, tossing them on the floor with reckless abandon. It's harder for me to track time these days. Has it been a hour? Two? Fifteen minutes? Hard to say. Better hurry. I pluck a soft red and black shirt out, admiring the soft expensive fabric and slip off my disgustingly dirty tee, buttoning the shirt with steady fingers. His clothes smell odd. Like dust and gunpowder. I love it. I find a pair of black leather pants obviously too big, but a studded belt holds them on my hips, I roll up the legs until I can see my ankles. I know all his shoes don't have a prayer of being usable, but I shove on three layers of socks and stuff them in a pair of black combat boots, lacing them as tight as they can possibly go. Even though they slide back and forth as I walk in refuse to be barefoot again.

The closet door is mirrored and I take a moment to inspect myself. The gash on my temple is done bleeding but dried blood has painted down my skin, that paired with the over brightness of my eyes and the chaotic mess of my hair makes me look manic but awesome. Like the lunatic instead of the doctor. His clothes look a bit silly on me, obviously too big, but they are better than the fetid shirt and jeans. I wish I had time to shower, apply some makeup, but I've wasted too much time already. A soft groan resounds in my ears, signaling him coming to, and I startle, time's up.

I dash through the room, pause, dash back and grab my bat, slip the duffle bag over my shoulder, and head for the balcony. His thugs will be all over the door. I have guns now, but so do they and I don't feel like being outnumbered. Not yet. I slide open the door and don't bother closing it. The cold afternoon hits me in a burst and I feel invigorated. I scale down the building super carefully, thankful for the agility I've sustained despite the years it's been since I walked a tightrope or did a solid back spring. My fingers find the crevices in the brick building and I descend aptly downward, jumping down on to the next balcony and repeating the process until all that stands between me and freedom is a two story drop. I take it, loving the feel of falling. I hit the pavement with the crack of my newly acquired combat boots against cement.

There's not much thought in what I do next. I blindly run for the fun of it. Ignoring the concerned looks I get from Gotham's more respectable-seeming citizens, they aren't so much concerned for me as they are worried about what a bloodied up girl might do to them. Funny people, living sad funny little lives. I finally start feeling less frenzied around sunset, the darkness is calming, leaving me feeling less exposed. I blend in better with the types that walk Gotham at night. I realize I'm hungry, my stomach gives a needy little gurgle, and I wonder how long it's been since I ate or drank anything. I look at a seedy nightclub in speculation, aware that every inch of this city is his playground and filled with his men. Well, a girl's gotta eat, right?

The club is called Zero Gravity, and it's jammed with unsavory types and blasting some nasty loud techno. My kind of place. Or it is now, it wasn't before. It's been a day, maybe two since this game started but I feel different, like all my last vestiges of sane me are flaking off. I pick out a booth and set my duffle bag on the side closest to the wall, wary of thieves. A waitress with too much makeup and chunky blond highlights looks me up and down in annoyed boredom.

"What's it going to be?" She has to yell to be heard over the music. I toss aside the menu I've been blankly staring at without reading and smile at her cheekily.

"Give me a Guinness and a burger," I respond with a smile.

"Kay," she's not phased by me, she merely moves on in her tight little mini skirt and bright blue halter top, her boobs nearly spilling out the front. I people watch, killing time until she sets a greasy burger down and a dirty glass filled to the brim with a dark logger.

"Here you go." she slams down the meal and drink with zero eye contact. I smile big, at the burger, and chomp down on the first bite, starving. It's chewy and burned but it could be made of rubber at this point and I would still wolf it down with gusto. I take big, sloppy bites, barely chewing, and use big gulps of beer to slide the beef and bun down my throat. Heavenly.

I'm licking ketchup off my fingers when someone sits down across from me. He plops down like a human sack of bricks, and I feel my muscles and nerves tense like guitar wire. My eyes are narrow as they raise, burning with animosity.

"Whoa, calm down little lady," the greasy haired man chuckles, holding up his hands as if I'll believe he means no harm. "I like a girl who knows how to eat." His eyes are blue and sharp, his skin slightly pock marked.

"I'm not looking for company," I tell him cheerfully, guzzling down the rest of my glass and slamming the empty cup for emphasis. He guffaws.

"A little girl like you shouldn't be in here alone. Did someone do that to your face? Want me to rough him up a bit?"

I laugh. A good, deep from the belly cackle that let's a few tears slip from my eyes as I consider the sheer audacity of his supposition that he can protect me. He's frowning, looking all male ego wounded.

"Why?" I croon, changing tactics and making my expression all sad and needy. "You gonna protect little ol' me from the big bad man?" I smirk, twisting my hair around my finger as he orders two more beers, slapping the waitress on the butt as she goes.

"Sure sugar, I'll protect you. This is my club, you see," he preens, "Ain't nobody come and go from here without my permission."

"Oooh," I lick my lips, catching the last traces of my burger from around my mouth, his eyes are riveted on the motion. "So you're like, in charge?"

"Yeah," he clears his throat, "Names Zeke. What's yours baby?"

"Harley Quinn," I decide on a whim. Harleen is dead or dying, like Mista J said, I'm his animal now. "Like the clown."

"Cute," he says in a way that shows he's barely listening. "Want me to show you around the upstairs? It's VIP, much nicer than this shit hole booth."

"I like the music," I lie, cocking my head at him consideringly. "Besides I think the guy who busted me up should be here soon," he's got enough informants, if he's not too distracted and still angry (which considering how I left him and what I stole I can almost bet for sure he is) he will be here real soon. "Didn't you say you'd rough him up for me?" I push out my lower lip, "It _really_ hurts."

"He's coming here?" The big beefy guy looks around with raised eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah," I smile, "He's pretty mad." A giggle escapes me, picturing just how mad the psychotic crown prince of crime must be. Dull little me beat _him_ up. The waitress puts down the beers with a sultry smile at the man across from me, this time the glasses are clean. Maybe it really is his club.

"Don't worry about him," he suggests and I hide my scowl behind a sip of beer, "He won't mess with you now."

"I don't know, he's very determined," I muse in a half yell, hating the way the bar's speakers blast the nasty music at such a ear splitting level. He reaches across the bar, putting a hand over my arm and I feel myself buzz into overdrive, a bubbly hot hate flashing inside me like when I took a bat to that homeless guy's head. Survival, it's all I'm about right now. Well, that and the deranged criminal hunting me.

"Come on babes, let's go upstairs, it's quieter. I swear if anybody comes looking for you I'll make him disappear."

I slide my arm out from his, or try to, he grips on tight, I think of the bat under the booth, leaned up against my leg. "I don't know Zeke, we just met. You got to give a girl a chance to flirt a little," I smile and bat my eyes. He lets go and I slide my hand down, reaching for the bat.

"Sure thing sweetcheeks, let's flirt," he smiles, "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a psychiatrist," at his dubious look I giggle, "I'm serious, I diagnose the criminally insane at Arkham."

"Wow," he doesn't believe me, "That must be interesting."

"Sometimes," I shrug, "I think I'm going to quit." I put in some vacation time after the Joker escaped, but I've only got a week of it left.

"Oh yeah? I guess you're too pretty to be working around those psychos."

"Yeah well, mostly it's because my current patient, he's a bit of a handful," I confess, wondering what I'm doing by saying all this. Sometimes I don't even know what I have in mind anymore, but my bat gives me comfort, makes me feel invincible.

"Oh?" He's not listening again, he's staring at the cleavage I left a bit on view, leaving the top three buttons of the shirt hanging open. Most men are so predictable, all but one, really. The one sitting across from me now is obviously thinking about fucking me. Putting his hands all over my body...the thought makes me feel all worm-y inside.

"Am I boring you?" I ask in sugary sweetness. He blinks.

"Not at all," he lies, "It's just hard to concentrate with all this noise. Come upstairs, let me show you a good time. We can talk more," he offers the last so insincerely I let out a sharp laugh of disbelief. He frowns.

"No thanks Zeke, I think I'll stay here."

"I'm asking nicely," he points out, brows furrowing. "You want me to be nice right? Not like the guy who did that." He gestures to my beat up face. My lips purse.

"I'm going to get some fresh air," I reach for my duffle and he rises, slamming me back down into the seat so hard my teeth clink together.

"Now, now," he chides, "Don't be like that."

"Don't touch me," I suggest with a feral smile, "I don't like it."

"Too bad," he sips his drink, sitting back arrogantly, certain I won't try and run again, "I told you baby, this isn't a place for a girl to be alone." His demeaning tone rubs me the wrong way, so I do what I've been thinking of doing since he sat down. I haul back my arm and punch his smug greasy face. Not a petty little slap or half punch like most girls, I know how to fight, especially a jerk wad like him. His face snaps back and he gingerly touches his mouth, shocked at the blood.

"Bitch!" He back hands me, hard, and I see starry splotches for a moment. Incensed I grab my glass of beer and dump it on his head, going for my bat. He sputters, like a angry cat, spitting blood and beer as he rises up. I wipe my face off his sputtering spittle and put the end of my bat under his square jaw.

"Crazy bitch, what the fuck?"

"I told you, I don't want to be touched," I half laugh at the end, what is he deaf or something? I push the bat harder under his chin, "So Back. OFF." It's the music and the dizziness from the blow that keeps me from noticing the guy sneaking up from behind. He pulls me back roughly, grabbing my arm and twisting my bat from it. I give a cry of pain and lash out like a feral animal, kicking biting and slashing my arms. Still, it's two on one and they pin me back down onto the booth. Zeke is mouth breathing down at me, and I glance around, not super shocked as the other patrons pretend they see nothing. My eyes are wild with anger, seeking escape, but my heart is calm, pulse steady, strange, I should be terrified, but after facing Mister J this feels like a piece of cake. Probably vanilla, because it's so bland.

"Feisty little slut, I bet that's what earned you that, huh?" He barks out a laugh, grabbing my chin and leaning in close, his breath smells like beer and stale cigarette smoke, "Now I'm not going to be nice, baby."

I spit at him, a big ol gob splatters his leering profile and he recoils.

"Ugh!"

I twist madly and lash out my left leg, almost damaging the part of him he obviously thinks with. "Christ James! She's like a hundred pounds, hold onto her!"

"Sorry boss," the man holding me grumbles, "She's slippery."

"I'm going to kill you," I crow, not at all subdued. They will underestimate me, get sloppy, and it's not like I haven't been raped before. I can take it, wait it out, find my opening. "I'm going to cut you open and pull out your organs one by one." I promise, laughing loudly. The knife is tucked into the lining of the pants, I'm not disarmed yet.

"Shit, this one's fucked in the head," Zeke comments shaking his head, "Bet she's great in the sack."

The club music dies off abruptly, and Zeke frowns. "Who killed the tunes?" He demands, looking at the thug behind me, I can feel his shrug. He turns towards the DJ booth, and so do I, seeing a sight that makes my stomach clench and my heart flutter.

It's him. Bare chested, a leather jacket framing his sculpted pale stomach and chest muscles, he's flanked by five or six guys, wearing the usually painted faces, and wild clothes, one is even dressed in a animal costume. He picks up the mic, and it screeches feedback, causing a collective groan from the club goers.

"What now?" Zeke groans in annoyance. Apparently he doesn't recognize the Joker, which is a rare but amusing thing.

"Turn the music back on!" A punked out man yells, and with the pop of a silenced gun he falls, creating a panicked stir of screams and chaos as people finally recognize the threat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to dedicate this next song to a very special girl," he giggles. His dark eyes scan the club meticulously before he spots me, and ever so slightly, he frowns, "This song is for you, puddin', and please, no running, we've blocked the doors and anyone seen trying to flee will be killed promptly. So let's party!" he points the gun at the DJ, who starts up a hard, haunting beat. Being who he is, he doesn't spare the guy, one of his lackeys stick a knife into his throat as soon as the song starts up. He cackles, jumping over the turntable in a lithe, predatory motion. People scream and back away as he progresses forward, a magnetic determination in his eyes as our gazes stay locked.

"Who the fuck is this freak?" Zeke asks, reaching for the gun holster at his back.

"That's the Joker, boss, he's all over the news," the thug holding me supplies.

"I don't care if he's the king of fucking England, he's messing up my club!"

"Oh, he's going to do more than that," I croon, excited. Zeke give me a dirty look. The jester of genocide in question taps his shoulder and Zekey-boy turns, holding up his gun. The Joker steps into the firearm until it's pressed against his bare torso, cocking his head consideringly.

"Back the fuck up," Zeke warns, eyeing the other men flanking the crown prince of crime warily. Brilliant blue eyes meet mine, his silver teeth flash as he scans me head to toe.

"I see you helped yourself to my things again," he tsks, "Friends of yours?" He smiles at the men holding me.

"What took you so long?" I wonder, pouting out my lip. He smirks, chuckling.

"You've got spunk, doc, but don't get clingy it's unattractive," he points at the man behind me, his fingers mimicking a gun. The Joker pulls his finger like a trigger and one of his thugs let's off a few rounds at the motion. I feel the man behind me jerk, his grip slackens as he staggers to the ground and falls into a dead heap.

"Jesus! I will fucking end you, freak!" Zeke goes to pull to trigger, gun still pointed at that tattooed chest, but the Joker merely rolls his eyes and takes the gun like he's stealing candy from a baby. Effortless.

"Who's this piece of human feces?" He asks idly, looking Zeke over, and then his gaze settles back on me, "You really like playing the victim that much that you couldn't wait? Naughty, naughty..."

"I was going to kill him," I state defensively. He eyes me in speculation, considering.

"Well then," he claps his hands together and sits down in the booth, kicking his feet up, "Don't let me stop you." He gestures imperiously for me to continue. I pull the knife I stole from the pants I borrowed and I swear, for just a second, those brilliant bloodshot eyes glitter in appreciation. The expression makes me feel about ten feet tall.

"Stupid bitch, you think you can take me?" Zeke puff out his chest and scoffs. "I'll grind you into a pulp, cunt."

The Joker clicks his tongue, I don't hear it because of the music volume, but I catch the familiar motion of his mouth. He stands abruptly and grabs a fistful of Zeke's greasy hair, bashing his head off the table once, and then twice.

"Manners! I'm the only one who speaks to her like that," The Joker informs the man, and I feel a warmth rush into my face. He frowns, staring at his hand as if slightly confused, and then laughs, shaking his head. "She's mine, and I don't like people playing with my things, do I boys?" His cronies shake their heads, a menacing tower of muscle and madness but they practically scrape at his feet.

"Now Harley," he saunters up to me, touching the bruise on my cheek forming from where Zeke struck me earlier, I wince. "Entertain me, and you better make it a good show." He grabs my throat, squeezing in a gentle warning, "If you bore me, I'm going to have to kill you quickly, and while that's a bit of a waste, you know I'll do it. Leave you in the gutter like some piece of trash. I'll never even think of you, ever again. You don't want that, do you?" He asks softly, and I shake my head violently. No, I don't want that.

"Good girl, now," he slides behind me, his body engulfing mine in his presence. I shiver at the proximity, his hands gently slide down my arms, his breath hot in my ear, "Kill him. Do it for daddy, do it, do it do it…" his words pump into me, a sadistic mantra, goading and coaxing all at once, "Do it right and maybe I'll reward you..." I jerk, blushing like mad as he bites my ear, it's not gentle, I think I'm bleeding, but my skin is so hot I can't really tell. He all but shoves me forward, resuming his spot at the booth, looking arrogant and every bit anticipatory.

It's a bonafide effort not to swoon on the spot, my body coursing with heady elation. I can do this. He makes me want to. Pulls out all the nasty bits of me and makes them shine like pure gold. I walk up to Zeke, and when he swings I dodge, easily. Zekey-boy is enraged and blows to the head must have him a little off balance, poor thing. The knife strikes out, almost as if it's pulling my hand and not the other way around, and it slides into him like pudding, like a sack of gooey butter. I didn't know how easy that was, sticking a knife into flesh and muscle, it's like knifing taffy, stickier on the way out. He gasps, in agony, eyes wide and popping like a bullfrog. I look to Mister J, eager, and feel my world slide as he boredly stares back, looking impatient. He's not impressed. Not yet. I think of what I promised earlier, to cut the greasy haired mouth breather open and play with his insides, and realize that if I don't keep my word I be setting a bad precedent. Can't have that, can I?

I slash the blade upward making another cut, slicing past his blood soaked shirt, deep into his squishy skin. I kick him hard, watching in satisfaction as he falls back with a bullfrog expression, all bulging eyes and gaping mouth. His meaty hands are trying to hold the knife wounds on his abdomen, but the blood is pouring thick, coating him, making his fingers red like he's gotten a bucket of spaghetti sauce tossed on him. I slink down, feeling power rushing through me like static, my legs parting to straddle him, I cup his cheek putting his agonized expression at a better angle, so I can see all that delirious pain echoing from it. I lick my lips, they feel dry and with a small giggle I give him a flirty air kiss, giddy from this new feeling burning inside me.

"Is this what you wanted baby?" I croon, "Me on top?" He's looking so pathetic now, eyes wincing, mouth sputtering gibberish words like 'stop' and 'please no'. I get it. Suddenly. Like a lightning bolt hitting my brain pan, I suddenly understand why begging never worked for me. No one ever stopped when I said no, or please, and I can't stop either. It's like the icing on the cake, those little pebbles of weakness being tossed at me barely impact, just bouncing off like peas. I'm invincible, nothing can stop me. Nothing.

"This will sting a bit," I promise, and I use the blade to split him all the way open like a package of gooey organs. It's Christmas, and I've just unwrapped my gift. He spills red, screaming so loud the whole club can hear, even over the music. Weakly he tries to bat me away, but I fight him off, pinning his arms until the struggle is too weak to matter. Setting down the knife, I hum to myself, thinking back to anatomy class. Yeah, that's probably the stomach, the liver. I poke at them, curious, they feel wet and warm, but poking starts to lose interest. I take the ropes wet whitish things which have to be intestines, gripping the wet gooey stuff, it's like hot spaghetti, I begun pulling them out slowly, curious. He screams again, like a drowning cat. I pluck out a wet oval that's sort of purple next, and turn back to Mister J, who is watching me with a sort of expression I've never seen before. Eyes aglow, his body leaned in, eager, wanting.

"Is this the liver?" I inquire, guessing he might know.

"Mmmm," he leans down, inspecting my handiwork, "Is don't think so puddin, that's the stomach, better put it back."

"Huh," I toss it to the floor and pull out a few other organs, and then I sit back and admire my handiwork. Suddenly my brain flips, like a light switch being flicked back on, and the terrible, horrifying truth of what I've just done hits me. For a moment I freeze, taking in the fellow human being I've destroyed, reduced to blood and skin and horror. The breaker pops and the moment passes, everything upstairs goes just as dark as I like it. I start giggling. Once I start it's impossible to stop. I laugh and laugh, my side aching and my throat almost raw with it.

"What's so funny?" The magnificent monster who encouraged me to do this is asking, and I'm eager to reply, but it takes a moment, the giggles won't pass. I wipe my wet eyes with my shoulders, I laughed so hard I'm crying, but I don't want Zeke's blood on me. My hands and wrists are covered in it.

"Well I was just thinking," I manage between sporadic after-giggles and gasps, "He seemed pretty gutless, and well," I gesture to the pile of messy organs at the dead man's side, he stopped twitching a while ago, "Now he is!" I erupt into a giggle fit again, horribly amused by my own joke.

To my surprise and delight the Joker cackles too, shaking his head as he offers me a hand up. Without hesitation, I take it. He pulls me against him, hard, all humor vanishing abruptly from his profile. Like a slate wiped clean, leaving no trace of his crazed laughter. He's mean and fierce, every inch the nasty predator I adore. I am almost squirming at the sight.

"I'm still very, very angry with you, puddin pop," he tells me in a growl, he blinks, and his expression shifts to wryly indulgent. "But you were a very good girl," he purrs through his teeth, eyes glittering, "so maybe I'll give you a reward after all. Boys," he turns to his men, gesturing disdainfully to the mess on the floor, "Clean this up."

With his usual fluid gusto, he turns away and abruptly grabs the bag I took from the hotel. Plucking up the bat next he gives it a few twirls, eyeing it with a frown, perhaps remembering how I used it on him. With a shrug he holds them out, offering them. I stand there stupidly, shocked. I was sure he was going to move on to killing me next. He rolls his eyes, forcing them into my hands roughly.

"You have five minutes, doc," his long fingers grab my chin, before he tosses me back, away from him with a sneer, "That's a very fair head start, no?"

I smile, and in a mad impulse I rush up to the devil that makes me want hell, grabbing him by the back of the neck and kiss his cheek in a loud smacking pop, tasting the powder of his makeup. "Thanks Mista J." I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach, but I don't miss the look of shock, however brief, on his face as I run past him towards the back exit. I think I'm falling harder for him. Whatever that makes me, I don't know, and basically I'm well past the point of caring...but you know what they say. Love makes you do crazy things.

"Boss?"

"Uhh… Mister Joker?"

He's been chasing this silly girl for a few days now. He has barely even played with Batsy. Why? WHY? He touches his cheek. Foolish, reckless girl. He didn't give her permission. Nobody touches him like that. He made her. He took that stupid doctor and made her interesting. Worthy of a few minutes of his time….but days? Hardly.

Hardly...hardly….Harley. He giggles, she's Harley now, his Harlequin.

Watching her kill, it made him hard, made him want to stick something besides a knife in her and that's never happened to him before. He must be just getting turned on by his own power, it happens sometimes. Knowing he made her into such a desperate, demented thing. Running from him, in his own clothes, in his city. He cackles. Stupid girl. She can't really run, not when she wants to be caught. And she does want him to catch her. He sees the way her eyes light up, every time he finds her. He wants to watch that light wither and die, snuffed out as her pretty little mouth goes slack. He wants to watch her scream until her throat bleeds, beg him over and over again to kill her, until he feels generous enough to do the deed.

Damnit. He shouldn't be aroused by that, but he is. His dick is hard just thinking of how much she'll beg for him to kill her. Women don't interest him, nobody does. They are all the same. Little puppets waiting for him to cut their strings and watch them drop. Even her. Especially her. His fingers clench, nails biting into the flesh. Next time he won't even hesitate. He won't play with her, or make her beg, next time he'll cut her a new smile, a prettier grin, ear to ear. Better. Yes. He doesn't feel a thing about doing that.

"Boss?"

"WHAT." He spins in a growl.

"You said to tell you when it'd been three minutes, it's been four."

"Well, then you're useless, aren't you?" He kills the man with a easy slide of his knife, bored as he watches him choke on his own blood. "Come on gents, time to play," he grabs his gun, one of his favorites, and leads his little ensemble out the door. "Olly olly, murder spree! Ready or not, here I come!" He calls, kicking open the door and walking into the night.


	3. Chapter 3: Just For Laughs

_**A/N**_ : Welcome back to my sadistic love story and all my demented characters are just so happy to be here. Aren't you guys?

 **Harley:** Is Mister J here? I was told there would be more steamy parts. So here I am!

 **Joker:** Where's Batsy?

 **Harley:** *Glomps Joker* Lover!

 **Joker:** *Slaps away Harley in disgust*

 **Harley:** Hey! What gives? I thought I was going to get my clowny-poo all to myself. *Pouts*

 **Joker:** Lying will get you everything, but your life. Don't waste my time where is the bat?!

 **Author: *** Ahem* So I might have exaggerated slightly. But aren't you guys glad to be a part of my intro?

 **Harley:** Mmmm *Kisses Joker wildly* You betcha Miss Author!

 **Joker:** *Shoots Author point blank, pushes Harley off him* Call me if anyone interesting shows up.

 **Harley:** *Pouts*

 **Author:** *Lies in pool of her own blood*

 **Joker** : *Grinning Maniacally* Now onto what's left of the story since I've...rewritten the author...

 _ **OBSESSION**_

 **CHAPTER THREE: Just For Laughs**

Smile

The worst is yet to come

We'll be lucky

If we ever see the sun

Got no where to go

We could be here for a while

The future is a given

So smile...

I remember the first time I saw Mister J, the crown prince of crime. The way the glass shined between us, keeping us separate and yet so close. You don't get to pick love, if you did things would be simpler. You'd always take the safe bet, and everything would go easy. Real love is like chewing glass, you know it's bad for you but you feel like if you could just get past the pain of it, swallow enough, you might feel whole. I slink down into a filthy alleyway, the refuse and dinge a constant backdrop to my life of late. My chest burns like I've been drinking gasoline and playing with matches, and my legs are wobbly from how far and fast I had to run to escape. I'm probably still not safe, but there's nothing more to feeling safe than closing your eyes and pretending the monsters aren't right next to you. So that's what I do, slinking down into the alleyway and settling my back against rough brick, I close my eyes and think of the days I want back. Back when it seemed like I mattered to him, even if it was all a lie, it's a lie I cherish. What's so good about truth anyway?

I remember the way he said my name. With affection. It was one of the first things he ever said to me, that my name was special. He liked the way it sounded, like Harlequin, a jester to his joker. Sane me knows the sociopath in him is incapable of love, but that doesn't mean I can't love him. It means I shouldn't. I love his laugh, so wild, so crazy, like the very pits of him are erupting and painting the world red. I love the way he moves, with such grace and a skip to his step, like he's dancing in the hell this world really is. He peeled away the dim blandness of normality everyone is always trying to chain themselves to, and showed me that the darkness can be fun, if only you give up on the superficial light. He gets me, in a way no one will probably never get him. Not even me. He saw it right away, all the bitty broken pieces of me just waiting to be pulled out to play. He likes them, doesn't shudder away like everyone else has always done. Best yet, he doesn't show that mind numbing pity everyone does when I showcase my pain.

I told him. It just slipped out one day. We stopped being doctor and patient a few weeks in, he was too charming, too magnetic, I lost my focus and started to give into the pull of him. He wanted to know everything, he was constantly asking questions, showering me with attention and praise. It made it easy to loosen up, to talk to him in a way I'd never dared speak to another person in my entire twenty-seven years of life. So when he asked where I learned to do such a killer handstand (because I'd taken to showing off for him, being the jester he wanted me to be) I casually mentioned the carnival I'd lived in for the first eight years of my life.

" _I knew you had a performer's heart, puddin'," he praised, "Such dramatics, such flair, you're making me curious though. Why the long face? Carnivals are fun! All the screaming chaos, the lights, the way you can't even hear a gunshot in a crowd. Yet you're wearing your smile wrong, it's upside down dollface. Tell daddy what's wrong."_

" _I…" My hand slipped a stray wisp of blonde hair behind my hair, shying away from the eager face nearly pressed against the glass. "I don't want to talk about it. Hey! Wanna see me do the splits?"_

" _Harls," he all but growled, his fingers digging into the glass that kept him from digging those same fingers into my throat. A urge I discovered later he entertained frequently. I fact I would only realize after I got permission to see him in the interview room, without the glass between us. "Don't avoid the question, it's not nice. Aren't I always nice to you? Come on, tell daddy what's wrong."_

" _It's boring," I refuted with a shrug of my shoulders, hoping he'd leave it at that._

" _I always make my Harley laugh," he insisted, tracing my profile on the sheer pane, "Don't you trust me puddin'?"_

" _Of course I do!" I twisted my fingers, letting out a long sigh, "I was raped." There was no polite way to dive into it, and he never stood much for politeness anyway. He liked the gritty, rawness of a provocative statement. "My father... let a man play with me, for money, whenever he liked. I don't like to talk about it."_

" _Now, now," the Joker tsked, "How can we help cure you if we don't know the cause of the problem?" It was his favorite game, pretending he was the doctor, and I the patient. He was going to cure me of my sanity, let me see how good crazy was for me. He was sure he was making progress, and I couldn't really disagree._

" _This isn't fun anymore, I'm leaving," I didn't like to think of the past, and I never spoke of it. A part of me couldn't believe I'd even said it. I'd refused to tell anyone, the social worker, the cops, my foster parents. They knew, but I didn't ever confirm it. Saying it aloud made it too real, I wanted to scrape off my skin, tear it into pieces and scream and scream until I could wash away the thoughts cramming into my head._

" _Sit. Down." He was using his super authority voice, the one that made me feel like I was the puppet, and he was holding all my strings. Without meaning to, my legs gave out, and I found myself on the floor, staring up at his maniacal profile with wide eyes._

 _He crouched, keeping our eyes on level, his expression fierce, "Now tell me. All the details. I want to know. Leave anything out and I'll be angry, and we don't want me angry, do we doc?"_

 _My eyes welled up. The last time he'd warned me about making him angry he'd bitten the throat out of the guard who escorted him to and from the small space they allowed for our sessions. I hadn't seen him for two whole weeks. It had been horrible. Not seeing him. The guard had died, I was still trying to feel bad about that. I knew I should, but whenever I tried, it just wouldn't come._

" _He made me stay real quiet, because he didn't want anyone else to know. He liked to…" My mouth was so dry, I felt my hands shake, "He called it playing pretend. I would pull up my skirt, and he would…" I looked over at the impassive profile peering inside of me without a inch of empathy, "Please, Mister J, I can't…"_

" _Harley, sweetness," he smiled, "You can. You will. Don't make me say it again."_

" _He would put his fingers...in me and…make me kiss him...and he said I was his doll, and…" tears were pouring now, I couldn't keep going. A hiccup. "He said if I made a noise he would break my leg."_

" _Did he?" Eager now, attentive, he cocked his head at me, curious._

" _Yes," I bit my lip, "I couldn't help it, I was so scared and he was so angry. He tried to make me lay down, and it hurt so much, I cried out and he...the doctors saw the bruises and they called the cops."_

 __" _That's it?" He wanted to know. I nodded sullenly, feeling dejected and exposed._

 _He laughed. No pity. No disgust. He tossed back his head and laughed, loudly. I felt it then, the anger surging, making me red hot and snarly. It rose up like a bile in my throat and wouldn't swallow down._

" _IT'S NOT FUNNY!" I screamed, punching the glass, right where his face was. He giggled, miming feeling the blow and being knocked back._

" _Wowza, what a punch," he commented in amusement, "What ya wanna do to me doc? Punch my face in? Make me bleed? Come on, let me have it, show it to me, I wanna see, show me your claws kitten," he coaxed with a wide smile, eyes bright. I snarled, slamming at the glass with all my might, kicking and punching, heedless of the way my knuckles bruised and bled, the way my toes smarted and stung._

" _See?" He asked lightly when I'd worn myself down, my hands and feet ached. I sucked on a bleeding knuckle, still mad and sulking. "You're not a victim Harley, you never were. Don't let anyone make you feel weak. If they do, kill em'."_

" _You're a jerk," I pouted, wiping the still lingering tears from my face._

" _Feel better?" He challenged, raising his eyebrows at me knowingly. With a grunt, and a long sigh, I rolled my eyes._

" _Yeah, a little," I begrudgingly admitted._

" _Good," he praised, "Now how about you show me your splits, puddin'?"_

I shake away the memory, feeling a headache throbbing at the front of my brain. He said I wasn't a victim. Told me to kill anyone who made me feel I was. I've always hated that mute baffled look people give me, so full of pity. It makes me feel dirty and ashamed, but he didn't look at me like that. He made me so angry I couldn't see straight, and that anger made me feel powerful. I missed that side of him. The side that had been playful, but sweet. He hadn't shown me a hint of that since he'd gotten out. Now it was all chase me down and kill me, which carried a sort of thrill, but I'm dirty, and tired, and I just want him to hold me like I'd always dreamed about. My head hurts. I hate the way blood crusts under my nails, it feels so grimey. With a sluggish feeling I force myself up, off the cold ground, my bones all sorts of sore as I stumble from the alley, almost running right into another person.

"Whoa, easy," I see the red first, a perfect red, like fresh rose petals, her stunning hair surrounds a delicate face, with oval jade green eyes and lips as red as the hair. Her hands are gentle on my shoulders, and as she takes me in, from my mussy hair to the blood splattered up my arms and borrowed shirt, her lips purse.

"Sorry," I mumble without inflection, intending to keep on my way. I shuffle the bag up on my shoulder, it became dislodged in the bumping. The bat is loose in my grip, resting on the ground as I look at her wearily. I go to leave, I don't have it in me to keep running, but I have to keep moving, or he'll find me. I want it, and I don't. I can't keep anything straight, I'm such a mess.

"Wait," she pulls me back, her voice a soft southern drawl but still cool and clinical. It's soothing. I sounded a little like that once, but that seems like years ago. Her grip on my wrist is cool, but firm. "You're in trouble, aren't you?"

"Always," I give her a wild grin, trying to make her uncomfortable. She remains unruffled, perfectly collected in her dark green skirt and white blouse. A glance at the blood on me and she smiles, a soft and sweet smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"You're that doctor I saw in the news, the psychiatrist," she observes, "The one who was treating the Joker."

"I was on TV? Wow, guess I'm famous," that's exciting, finally, my face on the big screen. I wonder why.

"He's hunting you, it was on the five o'clock news." She tells me calmly, "I'm Pamela, Pamela Isley. Did he do that to you?" She gestures to the blood coating my skin. I shrug.

"Nah…" I deny immediately, and with a thoughtful frown add reluctantly, "Sort of, why? What do you care?" I demand suspiciously. Why isn't she avoiding me? Running the other way? I look a mess, and I'm twice as bad as I look.

"Girls have to look out for each other, especially in this city," she points out, "I'm a doctor as well. I study botany and toxicology, my place is close to here. It looks like you could use a shower."

"Why are you being so nice?" I don't trust it, it seems odd that such a well dressed, educated person would be nice to me. What's her angle?

"Let's just say I feel a sort of kinship to your experience. I was put in a situation like yours once, a man I cared for very deeply, tried to kill me."

"Oh? And what'd you do?" I ask with a snort.

Her cool smile never wavers, "I killed him, naturally."

"Cool," I smile back, feeling that kinship she was talking about. Here's someone who obviously gets it. And she's a doctor, like me. What are the odds? Probably a zillion to one. She tosses back her hair, looking at me with a small smile of her own.

"Come on," she coaxes, "Let's get you back to my place. You can get a shower, and I have some clothes you can borrow."

"Wow, you're like, so nice. Thanks Pamela."

"Please, call me Ivy," she insists, hailing a cab with a wave of her hand. The cab stops immediately and she saunters to the door, slipping in and leaving it open so I can enter as well. I do so, feeling a little unsure of myself. When I get in, she's fiddling with a makeup compact, a pretty shell container, she dabs a little of the cream on her neck and wrists, leaning towards the cabbie. He peers back at her, pupils dilated, a entranced look on his face.

"Where to, pretty lady?"

A smirk graces her dark red lips, "1293 Stanton street." When we arrive the cabbie turns back, looking at her with awe.

"No charge." He assures her. Ivy leans in, her green eyes sultry and half lidded.

"Aren't you sweet?" She croons, and without a second of hesitation she plants a big ol' kiss on his lips, pressing hard. I watch, amazed, as the man begins to gag, a white spittle forming at the corner of his mouth as his eyes roll. He gags, choking and gasping for a few strangled moments before he falls back motionless, eyes frozen open in horror and pain. With a expectant look she shoos me with her hand.

"Come on dear, let's not dawdle."

I try not to gawk, because let's face it, that was so cool! She killed that guy with a kiss! I want to do that! With a bounce in my step I swing from the cab, waiting for her to lead because I'm not sure where we're going. My bat is swinging at my side, skipping a little as we enter the pristine foray of her apartment building. She waves at the guard, who is staring at us, but not at all like you would expect. Instead of gaping at the blood and yuck on me, he's riveted on Ivy, his expression lustful.

"Hello Charles," she murmurs with a smirk, waggling her fingers at him casually. He all but swoons. "This is my important guest, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, I trust you'll be as accommodating to her as you have been to me."

"Of course, Dr. Isley, anything," he assures her, eagerly rushing up to push the elevator button for her.

"Actually, I prefer Harley," I tell the tall red head, amused as the elevator doors close and the guard ignores my state of appearance. What a neat trick. I wonder how she does it.

"Harley," she nods to herself, "I'll remember that."

"Well, this is it," she remarks as we enter her apartment. The first thing I notice is the plants, they cover everything in green. Leafy and lush, their stems and flowers leaving a pungent floral aroma in the air. They drape every surface, even the floor, and I time my steps gingerly, careful not to trample her decor.

"You're being very considerate," she remarks consideringly, "Most people just trample them." I gasp, looking at her in shock.

"But they're so pretty!" I remark, "I wouldn't want to hurt them."

"I knew we were alike," she's pleased, her lips lifting in a actual smile, "I treasure them, they're my children." I shrug, tiptoeing to the middle of her living room. Who am I to judge?

"The shower is just down the hall, second door to the right, I'll bring you a set of clothes. Be careful of the jimson weed, it can be quite temperamental when disturbed," she warns, caressing a pink petaled oleander with a soft coo. I nod, taking her seriously despite the oddity of it all. If there's one thing living in Gotham has taught me, it's not to discount warnings. It's a good thing I'm agile, or navigating wouldn't be easy with all the foliage on the floor, but I make a game of it, timing my steps perfectly so I don't step on her 'children'. I don't want to offend my host, after all, she's been so nice. Also, I really want a shower.

When I reach the bathroom I notice a collection of spiky leafed plants on the sink, they let off a soft hiss as I enter and I blink, rubbing my eyes. Well, if I'm crazy it's probably nothing new. I carefully sidestep the sink, keeping my eyes on the inhospitable plants, and with a little fiddling I figure out how to turn on the shower, and make the water scalding hot, just the way I like it. There's no plastic shower curtain, just a tumble of plants growing over the shower rod, and I slip through them, careful not to pull off leaves. They are soft, their leaves fuzzy on my naked skin. The clothes I borrowed are a pile of slightly blood crusted leather and silk on the bathroom floor. I step into the steaming spray, exhaling in delight at the first burn of hot water turning my flesh from pale ivory to pink.

I marinate in the water for a long while. Letting the hot spray soothe my aching bones, sting at my cuts and bruises, my head turning up towards the pulsing jets pouring over me. I find a bar of what looks like homemade soap, lathering it over my body and scrubbing the lingering blood and grime from my skin and hair. It smells delightful, like honey and lilac. No plastic bottles of shampoo and conditioner or scrubbing loofah, just the bar, but I don't really mind. It feels so good to be clean, even if it's just physically, the thoughts of the past few days ricocheting in my brain. They won't stop bouncing off my brain pan, if I close my eyes I can still feel him standing behind me, his fingers digging into my wrist, his breath a hot current in the shell of my ear. The way I yearn to see that light in his eyes, a crazed vibrancy that validates my existence. He's a black hole, and I want him to suck me in, swallow me, devour me until every cell of my body and self is implanted in his void. Yet a nagging part of me still fears the nothingness that represents.

"I brought your clothes," Ivy's dulcet tone shatters my revere, bringing me with snapping force to the present. I step through the curtain of soft greenery with no regard for my dripping wet nudity, smiling widely at the fully dressed red head gently placing clothing down on the toilet seat.

"Thanks! Got a towel?" I ask casually shutting off the shower with a twist of my hand, for some reason standing naked before her doesn't feel weird at all. Not breaking eye contact she matter-of-factly offers out a dark green towel, regarding my nakedness with a matching casualness. No shame. No embarrassment. We just met but I feel uncharacteristically comfortable around her. It feels strangely familiar, like we've always been close.

"There's lotion and a hair brush in the left drawer, when you're dressed we can talk," she offers, glancing at herself in the mirror. A soft patting of her still perfect bright red hair and a pout of her lips later she regards the plants over spilling the sink with fondness, "Be good for mommy," she tells them with a croon, caressing the leaves gently before she walks away. Her heels click, her steps easily missing each tendril of plant in her path.

Toweling myself off, I reach for the clothes she left, inspecting them curiously. A silky red halter top, with bra, and a pair of low cut black jeans and a thong. The underwear is a touch is something only another female would understand, and I slink into them, digging into the drawer for the brush she spoke of. I spot a tube of lotion and give it a sniff, it smells like aloe and cream, I slather it generously on my skin hating the way the hot water dries it out. Heaven. The shirt fits me perfectly, cool silk sliding against my skin and bringing out the fullness of my breasts and toned line of my stomach, the jeans are a different story since she's obviously taller than me. I roll them up a bit so they don't cover my feet. Still I'm really grateful to be in clean clothes that fit, mostly. I gingerly make my way from the wooden floors of her hall to her kitchen. In the open space that exists between kitchen and dining room Ivy's tending to a large venus fly trap, it's spiked mouth leaning towards her as she waters it.

"So...You really like plants, huh?" I question awkwardly. With unhurried motions she sets down the steel watering can and turns to me, a sweet smile on her mouth.

"Plants were here first, they populated the earth long before humans and their toxins began destroying it. I appreciate their pureness," she muses, looking me up and down, "You look refreshed. Water invigorates all life, even human." There's a wry twist to her mouth at the word 'human'. "Do you like tea? I made a special brew using a few leaves from my friends."

"I prefer whiskey," seeing her look I feel rude and add quickly, "but tea is nice."

"I don't usually drink, but there were a few things left from the previous tenant," she rummages through the cabinets in her kitchen, making a soft 'ah' noise in the back of her throat as she locates a glass bottle. Gingerly she pours me a small tea cup full of scotch, "Will this do?"

"It's perfect," I pop the word, taking the small china cup and pouring the liquid down my throat. It burns magnificently, taking the edge off my crap day.

The green eyed woman sips her tea, staring at me consideringly. Her every movement is graceful, I wish I could pull that off. "You're a very unique woman, Harley."

"Right back at'cha," I respond genuinely, "That thing you did to the cabbie, that was brilliant."

A embarrassment flushes her cheeks, "Not many people would feel the same way," she points out. I nod, offering out my cup, she obligingly pours another generous amount of scotch.

"I'm not most people," I respond, realizing it's true. I'm not. I don't think that way, not anymore. Once I would've been horrified at the killing of a so called innocent man, but now I'm just mostly curious how she pulled it off. A toxic kiss, so neat. Nodding slowly, she grasps my hand, her green eyes boring into mine.

"I knew I felt a connection to you," she says softly, "You and I are the same, Harley, we see the human existence as it truly is. A plague, feeding off this planet, ruining all that was once pure and good."

I toss back the cup of scotch, feeling a tingle in my belly that radiates through every nerve ending, pouring fire through me. Nodding enthusiastically I add, "Yes! They just wanna eat up all the joy, make themselves feel better in their sad little lives. It doesn't matter to them who they trample to get what they want. That's what Mister J says, he says they wanna kill the laughter, so you just gotta make them smile again. Or kill em', you know, either way someone is happy."

"Mister J?" There's a pucker between her artful crimson eyebrows.

"Oh, the Joker," I supply, realizing she doesn't know who I mean, "He's not as bad as the media says," I assure her, but thinking about it I realize I'm not being one hundred percent honest with my new friend, who has been nothing but nice to me, "He's worse." I stare at my empty cup, "But he makes a terrible kind of sense, and I can't stop thinking about him. He wants to kill me, I know that, but I like him…" I sigh, feeling like my words are tripping over themselves, "I'm not making sense, am I?"

"You've been through a lot," she surmises easily, and I'm immediately grateful that there's no sort of revulsion or judgement in her gaze. "I loved a man like that once," she confesses, "He destroyed me. But then I was born anew."

"How did you do that thing, with the cabbie?" I ask, suddenly eager to switch topics. I know I'm asking to be destroyed, reduced to nothing. My obsession is fanatical, purely illogical and self destructive from a sane point of view, but that's not what I want to focus on right now. Knowing something is bad for you and giving it up are two entirely separate matters. A part of me wants to keep them as separate as possible.

"It's the toxins in my lips," she supplies with ease, her fingers trace the lips in question and she blows me a kiss. I giggle. "I carry a neurotoxin in my skin. It interacts when a protein based substance comes in contact with the dermis, causing a reaction that exudes the chemical in copious amounts, the effect is quite deadly."

"Neat-o, how'd you manage that?" I want it. I want to be able to kill a man by kissing him, show him I mean business by a meer pucker up.

"The man I spoke of earlier, was actually a man named Dr. Jason Woodrue. I thought I loved him. He, however, intended to kill me, he feared I would expose his illegal research. So he tried to poison me with a very rare strain of toxin extracted from a ancient Egyptian artifact. Sad to say," her soft drawl lapses into a poignant pause, "It didn't have quite the effect he expected."

"Gosh." I frown, trying to formulate a better response, "Sorry Ivy."

"Yes. So was he," her voice delivers dryly. "But by then it was too little, too late."

My laughter fills up what might have otherwise been an awkward silence, cutting through the thickness of the tense topic with ease. That delivery! So perfect! And her style! Man I envy that. Her bemused glance meets mine and I offer up my empty cup in a cheers.

"To never dying easily," I crow, clicking the tea cups with force and sipping get the last drops of scotch that settled to the bottom of the cup.

"To being more deadly than the men who would kill us," she refills my cup, her stare ripe with meaning, her cup clicks mine and we both drink again.

"You're like, the nicest person I've ever met," I tell her sincerely, "Thanks for the shower, and the clothes...It's just so...nice." My words are slightly slurred. Ivy pats my hand and finishes her tea.

"You must be exhausted," she stands, offering me the bat and bag I set by her door when I entered. I realize the lunacy of that suddenly, trusting a perfect stranger with my only possessions. "There's a spare room here, of you need a place to stay."

"That's so...nice," I finish lamely.

"Like I said, us girls have to stick together," she replies with a smile, "I'll show you your room." Even drunk I can manage not to step on the plants, and I'm proud of that, following the sultry redhead to the spare room I blink at the simple bed. At least there's no hissing plants in here. She makes sure I'm settled, and once satisfied she goes to leave.

"Ivy?" My voice is hesitant. She turns, looking posh and polished and everything I pretended to be and never really was.

"Yes?" She asks softly.

"Thanks. I really mean it."

Her head nods once, her green eyes bright, "I know. Sweet dreams, Harley."

I wake up to a pinching sensation in my neck, it stings. I go to swat at it, blindly jerking my arm, but it's stuck. I try again and realize there's something wound around both my wrists and legs, tying me down. My eyes fly open and I see a pale face swathed in red, her ruby lips purse as she gingerly sets down a large syringe. Panic hammers in my chest. Stupid me. Trusting someone in Gotham. If I hadn't been so ragged, run down to the bone I wouldn't have ever been so gullible, or so I'd feverently like to believe. My hands are wrapped in vines, no matter how I pull and twist they just tighten, cutting into the skin, I can feel the throb of my circulation being cut off. Blood hammering in my throat and chest, my skin breaks out in a cold sweat, what did she inject me with? How horribly am I about to die?

"Relax Harley," her soft southern voice drawls, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Riiiiight," My sarcasm betrays my hurt, so much for being alike. I don't hurt people I like, well...not unless they hurt me first. My teeth grit, I will so hurt her for this.

"The toxin I injected you with will provide all sorts of natural immunities, once the side effects pass you'll be just fine," Ivy assures me with a smile. I bear my teeth in a unfriendly grin, a slight hangover has me feeling less than friendly, being tied up isn't helping.

"Side effects?" I demand sharply. She sighs softly, sliding her red hair behind her ear.

"Mild hallucinations, dementia, fever, accelerated heart rate, shortness of breath, don't worry they are all temporary," she feels my head, her pale hands are cool, my skin feels too hot, sort of prickly. "You already have a mild fever, which is to be expected, let me get you some water."

"You can't do this," I growl, "He's still hunting me. He'll find us, and kill us both."

"Who do you take me for?" Her eyebrow arches, voice cool, "Your clown won't discover us. Men," she sneers, "So easy to control, really Harley I'm doing you a favor. You'll see."

"You don't know Mister J," I point out in a snarl, jerking against the plants holding me captive. Ivy shrugs.

"The more you struggle the more they'll hurt you, just relax, I'll be back in a moment." She sighs, "Don't make this harder than it has to be, Harley. I know you're upset but you'll feel much better when he's dead. I promise."

I laugh. Loud. I can see the sound crawling out of my mouth, it's black and pink, wriggling in the air like jagged gas. "You don't know him, or me," I giggle again, watching the colors with awe, "He's going to find us, and when he does _you'll_ be the one who sees."

"Rest up," she suggests, her words a soft exhale of pale green, "you'll need it."

I'm finally exactly where I want to be. He's staring down at me with those beautifully crazy eyes, stroking my hair and whispering all the nasty things he's going to do to me. I purr, excited, my body wriggles, feeling like it's on fire. My mouth is dry, like sandpaper, but he strokes my wet skin, humming a maddening melody that makes me want to taste him, to press his lips on mine and bite and suck him until he feels something back. His image wavers and I moan, distraught, the noise building in the back of my throat like a needy animal. Ivy takes his place, her green eyes glowing like neon, and she forces more cold water down my throat. I'm drinking a river and I'm drowning.

The world is glittering, sparking with the tiny white fire in the sunlight. So pretty. The shiny flakes drift like metallic mites, and then they're on my skin, coating me in tiny insect bodies that bite and burrow into the pores of my skin. I scream and scream, black clouds erupting through my mouth until my vision blurs and I lapse into the dark warmth they provide. It's nice here in the dark. Floating in the nothingness. The world shakes and I hear Ivy murmuring that it's going to be okay. I snarl, biting at air, how dare she? Nothing is okay. I miss the nothingness. Light burns my eyes, and they water and sting, lava runs down my cheeks hot, digging a molten trail through the flesh.

Something is digging into my wrists, snakes that coil and coil until I can feel their fangs. My heart is a hammer, pounding inside my metal breastplate, I ring like a gong, vibrating with each solid pound echoing through my metal flesh. If I only had a real heart I could be human and follow the wizard down a yellow road make of sponge twinkies. I gasp as I feel something cold press my cheek, it digs in until I can taste the gun powder.

"Wakey, wakey sleeping beauty," a voice stirs in me, slipping into my skin and tickling my brain. I open my eyes to a sporadic array of green and blue, I'm being sucked into a color void and dripping into it. The pressure in my cheek increases, I taste pennies, sharp and thick. They fill my mouth, clinking against my teeth until I spit out dollars.

I open my eyes again and I see a familiar shade of green. Not like her eyes, but darker, slicked back from a pale snow. Eyes webbed in red, their pupils a vibrant disc of blue. My breath sucks in, filling me up like a balloon.

"It's you," I feel myself radiating a rainbow, it can't be him. Not really. I've dreamed him a million times and I always wake up. But this time I want to stay. To keep pretending. Groggy I grasp this figment with all my will. The air vibrates between us, humming, my cheek throbs. Like a tap on the shoulder, impatiently trying to remind me of something. I go to reach up, but my arms are still stuck, they feel numb, maybe I'm dead. A corpse in full rigor mortis. That seems nice, nothing can hurt a corpse.

"I can't believe it's you, I missed you so much," I tell him musingly, "But you don't miss me, and that's okay."

I feel something jerking at my dead wrists, they burn like fire is being poured on them. A voice in the background screams.

"Don't hurt them! My babies! You bastard!" I recognize that drawl, even in the high pitch of hysteria. Ivy. She's nice. Sort of. My brow crinkles. Why is everything so fuzzy? Like the world is stuffed with cotton.

"Upsy-daisy," a voice singsongs, it's him, I'd recognize that maniacal glee anywhere. The world spins and I feel myself float, suspended in air. Fingers dig into my hair like vice grips, my head lolls and I watch the world tilt on a merry-go-round even as I try to catch a solid image it slips away and melts into a dizzy spin. I love merry-go-rounds! Faster! Faster!

"That's my girl," he croons, the world is a swirl of white green and red, "You don't look so good, puddin', what did she do to you? You know you only want me to hurt you, right doll?" The words bounce against themselves until they become meaningless sound. I giggle. Do it again.

"You're so funny," I make my finger float, it touches a nose, "Boop. Boop the funny."

"Take that one to the docks and shoot her," he tones dryly, "When this one sobers up I'll pump her full of gas and leave her to create some real fun. She's earned it."

"Sure thing boss," I hear a faraway voice sound.

"You'll pay for this," a female voice hisses, full of venom. "She'll never be what you want her to be."

"Oh," eyebrows arch, a red mouth blazing a wide grin I just want to kiss, framing a gleam of silver teeth, "but she already is."


	4. Chapter 4: The Punch Line

A/N: So with no real ado, and no gilding of the lilly, I give you the fourth chapter of this little brain nugget. I know I don't update regularly and I have a bunch of more popular fictions, but I'm pretty determined to see this one to it's demented ending. I hope you enjoy...

 **Chapter Four** : The Punch Line

 _To know you is to hate you  
So loving you _

_Must be like suicide  
I don't mind _

_If you don't mind  
I'm not going to be the one _

_That's going to die…_

-Green Day

When I really wake up my mouth is sore and tastes like dust. Every fiber in me is aching and piercing, each cell feels drained and stretched out. How long has it been since I was really conscious. Hours? Days? Weeks? Does it even really matter? A lone light bulb flickers, casting the dingy space into a dismal relief. I'm in a horror-like cast of fickle light dancing with deep shadow. I'm underground, I can smell the dampness, the moldy disuse of a basement. Boxes piled, the floor a cold cement beneath my bare feet, hands erect, numb and pain as a dangle like a piece of abused meat. There's a cloth tied around my mouth, gagging me, that's what tastes like dust, my tongue pokes at it, dry as well. My head pounds like I've done ten shots of tequila, my stomach turning into itself. I groan. This sucks.

Hours seem to unfold. I only have my nose breaths for company in the large echoing space. A sucking inhale, a hot exhale sliding out my nostrils. I jerk in the handcuffs rubbing my wrists raw, they burn with continuous abuse. The right side of my cheek feels thick, puffy. I wait for a million dauntless moments, uncomfortable and alone, until I hear the crunching turn of a doorknob, a pair of shuffling feet clunking down a set of stairs out of view. Murmured voices transform from grunting mumbles to actual words.

"...don't know why we have to babysit the bitch," one grumbles. Another snorts.

"Just be thankful we didn't get stuck with the other one, heard Dawes and Rick ended up floating in the bay. Some sort of poison," a nasal voice supplies.

"Well, well, looks like she's awake," a sound of mucus, a wet spitting noise follows. "Guess we should tell the boss."

"Hold on," the deeper voice grunts, I squint at a beefy faced man who comes into view, his eyes wide and brown, nose slightly askew with the times it's been broken. "Boss won't care if we have a little fun first. He's going to give her some of the gas anyway."

"Good thinking," the other chuckles, "been awhile since we had some fresh meat."

"Hey! Not bad!" His companion with the chunky features observes, grabbing me around the waist. I'm helpless, a dangling damsel as he smooths back a lank tendril of hair that's stuck to my face. "She could be fun, but we better keep it quiet. The Joker doesn't like being disturbed."

"I want first," greasy is the best description for the other one, I decide, smirking as he steps into the wane lighting. His lank pale brown hair falling into a sallow face, framing his narrowed bloodshot eyes. His hands are shaking slightly, a sure sign of drug addiction.

"Dream on," the first grunts, and I shudder at the feel of something hard and meaty being pressed into my stomach, his glassy brown eyes taking me in, nostrils flared. "You can have a go when I'm finished." I shudder, my skin crawling, but I'm gagged, so I can't even express how disgusted I am by this predicament. It's too familiar, and a part of me wants to cry. But another part of me, the one I've been operating on for the last few days, raises up, its voice a giddy snickering bubbling under my skin. They didn't bind my feet.

I wait, dangling like bait. He paws at my breasts, kneading the flesh roughly. A groan of masculine desire escapes his disgusting spittle flecked lips. I jerk reflexively, repulsed. My red silk shirt shreds as he yanks at it, fabric splitting and revealing the black lacy bra Ivy lent me. Eyes greedy, he slips his hand into the device, popping up my breasts and nipple and clumsily pawing at my bared flesh as he presses against me greedily. I chew at the gag, waiting until he backs up, fumbling eagerly at the fly of his jeans. I heft up my weight, muscles sore, but my kick lands clean and hard, sending him sprawling.

"Stupid cunt," the other wheezes, spots dance in the aftermath of his backhand cracking my head back. My other cheek sore now as well. I lift up, chains rattling angrily as my ankles ensnare his scrawny throat, with a twist hard until I feel a pop of his spine, his body slumping in a heap of cheap leather on the cold basement floor. My breath is coming in sharp hot pants, pulse thudding. One down. One to go.

The bulky one rises up, lumbering to his feet. He catches my flailing kick in one hand, snickering. My blood runs cold as he ensnares my other leg, forcing them apart and wiping his bloody nose on his shoulder.

"More for me then," he grunts in satisfaction, he licks his beefy lips, smirking, "Now where were we?"

"You were just about to apologize for disturbing me," A insidious voice supplies. I still, a heat warming in my stomach. I'd know that voice anywhere. The beefy goon drops me guiltily, letting my body swing to and fro.

"Eh, Mr Joker, I was just-" he stumbles over his words clumsily, eyes darting between me and the consuming presence I can feel smoldering at my back.

"She's quite a dish, isn't she?" His voice as slick as oil, cool fingers clutch my shoulders in a painful digging grip, stopping me from my gently swing. "Go on, don't let me stop you," he encourages, "You want to have a little fun, right? Go ahead." His voice taunts.

"No boss, it was Frank, he wanted a go and I told him she was yours, see? But he wouldn't listen," he denies in a sputter, "and she killed him, and I was just going to teach her a lesson. Yeah. That's it," he nods enthusiastically.

"Teaching is so important," my eyes slide to the side, eagerly watching the tattooed villain as he walks into the dim yellow illumination of the sole bulb. His torso is encased in a dark purple shirt with jester cufflinks, a thin silver and black tie loosened and hanging from his collar. His very presence creates a stark contrast between sharp and sloppy, flesh and silk, pleasure and pain. He radiates all of the above in the sallow light. A part of me hates that I love that he's wearing a pair of dark denim jeans so tight that they hug the muscular ridges of his gleeful gait, combat boots thudding in echoing finality in against the cement flooring. Every inch the oddity. Anarchist gangster. Gleeful sociopath. Rebellious team player.

"But the relationship between student and teacher should be more interactive, isn't that right doc?" His eyes meet mine and he sneers, walking up to my and pulling down the gag silencing my words. A silver key glints in his fingers, with a deft motion he unlocks the cuffs. Staggering for a moment I all but fall into him as I regain my balance in a previous teeter totter against gravity and other, darker forces. I shiver from my toes to the very pit of me as he yanks up my bra roughly, unexpectedly covering me. Wordlessly my eyes thank him, but he remains impassive. Indifferent to both my plight and gratitude.

"You know, sometimes," he draws out the word spinning dramatically to stare at his lackey, "the student becomes the teacher, and this one is a fast learner. Should know, I taught her myself." He pats the bulky man on the chest in faux consolidation, rolling his eyes and sighing. None of which makes sense, but it's so him.

"So let's see what lesson we have in store today." Stepping close, his breath hot into my ear, he whispers, "Don't disappoint me."

I crack my neck, making a show of it like he likes. My arms feeling like jello, but I stare down my opponent with a revitalized glee. I know what he wants. I won't disappoint. The muscled goon looking at me with rage. I giggle girlishly, he doesn't stand a chance. He snarls, rushing me, his body plowing into me like a meat crusted boulder. The impact knocks me to the ground, pushing all the air from my lungs in a sharp gasp of dazed pain. My head cracks and I see blackness dancing with stars, they swirl round and round. Devilish laughter, thready and sharp, assaults my ears and hits my overworked nervous system like the sweetest stimulate. The jester of genocide doesn't care who wins, as long as blood pours, but I don't intend to be anyone's victim but his. Pinned down and seemingly helpless I stare up at my attacker with wild desperation. He growls, punching into my face so hard I feel my lips spit and gush blood as more looney tune stars burst behind my winced eyelids. Pain blooms in me like a flower, lavish petals of agony sprouting into hot seedy rage. I lock my joints, using every molecule of effort to flip his heavy weight crushing my prone body, but to my despair nothing budges.

His sticky hot breath fans my face in a mist of moist and sour. I can feel my bones crushing as his weight settles into me me in a suffocating vice. I feel like I'm twelve again, shoved up against that cold metal pole in the circus tent. So sure this ends with me in pain with no hope of escape. The emotion claws at my throat, incapacitating me. I want to go home. Be Harleen again. But Harleen would never know _him,_ never feel the power he gave me. She would be suffocated by the rules of the world, tied up in the sad little endless play of her life. I am NOT her. I'm so much more. A strange sort of calm melts into my thoughts and I feel swallow the panic clawing at my throat with a grunt. A heady rage fuses into my mind, changing my helplessness. It transforms into a snarly glee. A wild current of determination slicing through my body and thoughts.

"Oooh," I moan heavily, licking the sting of my bleeding lip, it tastes like a penny, "Do it like that." I'm a sultry seductress, all I have to do is picture Mister J and it pours out of me naturally.

Thrown off by my encouragement the goon blinks down at me, shocked. I smile so wide my busted lip throbs and gushes hot stinging blood, but I'm too busy relishing the adrenaline coursing through me to give a hot damn. "Say please and I'll give you a gold star, teacher." I pant, giggling louder as his brow furrows in confusion.

"This bitch is cracked," he utters in disbelieving astonishment.

"Cracked, broken, and loving it," I purr, wriggling beneath him, it throws him off just long enough for his iron grip on my wrists to slacken. I twist free in a violent slash, my thumb jutting up and digging into his eye until I feel a wet pop. Blood gushes, juices spewing out of the orifice. His body twists and he howls, backing off instinctively as he goes to cradle his burst eye. I use the moment to thrust my elbow into his jugular, sighing as I hear the satisfying crunch of his esophagus collapsing, like the crack of a eggshell. He chokes, clutching his throat and gasping desperately for air he'll never gain. I wipe my bleeding mouth, kicking him off me with disdain.

A slow rhythmic clap starts up, and I inhale gasp after gasp of adrenaline fused breath as I stare up at my captor. He bows in a flourish, standing up in a quick pop as I regain my unsteady footing.

"Thatt'a girl," he praises with a wide grin, "You've got some gumption, I'll give you that doc."

I spit blood, feeling wrecked. The world is tilting, and a part of me knows he could have stopped it all. Saved me. But he chose to stand back and watch. No white knight for me, no siree, for me it's the dashing devil, soulless and cruel with mocking laughter on his lips and madness in his jewel bright eyes.

"Now, you understand, I'll have to finish the treatment. You've come so far, no use wasting it," he catches me just before my legs give out, and I feel his stare burning into me, his eyes trailing down my ripped shirt and back up to my face. "Two doses of my gas, doll, and you'll never call me in the morning."

A hot tears slips down, escaping despite myself. He doesn't get it. This was all for him and he doesn't even appreciate it.

"Please, Mister J, don't…" I beg. I know it's useless but a part of me doesn't want to admit it. I want him to accept me. I want him so much it hurts. Yet he sees me as a pawn, a disposable toy he can wind up and break as he pleases.

"Shhh," he presses a soft kiss to my head, his lips dry and soft, and I clench, a part of me swelling at the brief contact. Heating me up. Lifting me in his arms as if I weigh nothing he takes me and smiles, my body a limp dough in his arms. "A little dose of treatment and you won't feel a thing, puddin'. Promise." My eyes widen in terror. I've seen the way his laughing gas takes over a person, killing them from the inside out. He wants to destroy me. When I only want him to see something more in me, something worth more…

My body sways with his jaunty walk, head lolling against his arm as I breath him in. I'll probably never be this close to him again. Never smell this toxic scent of blood and sweat, tangy and sharp, feel the firmness of his chest, hard and warm against my cheek. It rises and falls evenly, not at all strained despite carrying me through three underground rooms, his steps echoing on the basement floor in a rhythmic thud-thud. I snuggle against him, enjoying the moment for what it is. So he's going to pump me full of toxic gas until I die with one of those horrific grins I've seen countless times on the news. That's just so like him.

"Mister J?" I venture as he pauses, the room we enter is mostly empty. It smells really bad in here, like a few hundred people pissed themselves and it never really got cleaned. There's this large wooden chair set up center focus, the lone light in the room hanging over it and putting it on macabre display. It's got straps on it, thick ones, and sort of looks like a electric chair. Except instead of wires and junk, there's a bunch of metal canisters, large ones, and a giant gas mask set on a dirty metal tray. There's a bunch of wooden boxes with skulls painted on them, marked 'Toxic' in giant red writing.

When he doesn't answer I speak again, "You really going to gas me? Just like that?"

"It was a fun game, Harls," he muses, setting me down on the chair, I fight and squirm a bit but he holds me firm, his face a warning even as he smiles down at me, "but there's always a loser in games, sweetheart, don't be a sore loser." He begins humming, strapping one arm down and pulling tighter and tighter until I whimper, satisfied, he slips the belt through, clicking the tiny padlock in place.

"Don't I get a last request?" I pout my lip up at him, feeling my pulse hammering in my chest hard and fast. I was never this nervous around the other guys I thought I liked. Sometimes I'd blush and stuff, but just looking at him feels like I'm being microwaved, my nerves are on fire, my brain mushy, my skin tingling so bad I want to squirm and wiggle my way out of it.

"Depends," he decides, flashing me his grill, "What does my little Harley want?"

"This," I grab him by his green hair with my one free hand, it's softer than I thought, a little greasy but still soft, and I use it to yank his face to mine, immensely pleased he doesn't resist. My lips smash his, and he makes a tiny growl in the back of his throat, the noise vibrating through his mouth to mine. I lick his lips, and when he doesn't open them I pull his lower lip with my teeth, trying to force my way in.

He chuckles, and my breath slams out of me as he rolls his eyes, muttering something like "What the hell," and he's kissing me back, brutally, all teeth and dominance. His hand finds mine in his hair and he twists it out, bending it until he almost breaks my wrist before slapping it away, not liking any sort of control on my part. His other hand finds my throat, and he squeezes gently, before sliding it down, cupping my breast hard as his tongue thrusts in and out, a lewd mockery of sex. I moan, body popping up from the chair and grinding against his, a needy mewl escaping my lips.

He pulls back, and I strain to touch him again, held in place by the arm strapped to the chair. "I'm still going to gas you, puddin', and no amount of fucking changes that," he warns, licking my blood from his lips.

My brow furrows, lips pouting out, they feel puffy and hot, I can barely feel the pain from my split lip, "Don't care," I mutter in a mullish pout, "just do it." I reach for him again and he moves just outside of my grasp, enjoying my desperate struggle.

He laughs, a loud grating sound, "If you insist, but this isn't going to be a nice little fuck, Harls. I'm going to rip you inside out."

"Promises, promises," I sing song, taunting as if I don't believe him. As if the idea doesn't make me wet and hungry all at once. His eyebrows raise, and he gives me a look so dark I feel my mouth go dry.

"You'll regret that," he sneers, slamming me back into the chair so hard I feel my world spin, still slightly concussed from my tussle with his lackey. He doesn't kiss me, instead, his mouth finds my neck and he bites, hard, until he draws blood, his erection digging into me. His hungry mouth goes lower, biting and sucking, leaving marks on my pale flesh like a dot-to-dot coloring page. His finger twists my nipple, and I let out a throaty cry, my pelvis reaching up to grind against his, happy to find him as hard as AP calculus.

I use my free hand to yank his hair, my mouth finding his ear, which I nibble, teeth running down the tender flesh. His teeth clamp harder around my nipple, grinding the tender flesh in the hot metal of his grill, his hands finding my jeans, ripping the button out with a pop. It's not like any sex I've ever had. It's more like a fight. I push and try to pull his attention back to me, but he doesn't give a flying shit about what I want, his mouth and hands taking without a concern for my desire or need. I touch the front of his pants, squeezing, and he growls under his breath, his fingers digging in so hard I'll have imprints of them on me for days. He has my jeans off in two yanks, and he's pulls his down with another, shoving inside of me in one brutal thrust.

"Oh," I gasp, and his chuckle tickles my ear.

"You're very wet," he remarks, sounding almost surprised. "but you're tight, this should hurt." He smirks, slamming into me again, and again, I lock my legs around his hips, throwing back my head and letting out all the sounds I want to, not embarrassed at all. It hurts, but in the best way, making my insides burn and writhe in pure pleasure. He's still mostly dressed, his arms strained as they cage me in, skin slightly slick as he rams in and out, a fierce smile on his face.

I come, just seconds before he does, and he gives a slightly breathless cackle, pulling out of me and yanking up his jeans. He looks like a lazy predator, sated but still hyper alert, running his hands through his hair as he stares down at me consideringly. I lay there for a second, pliant, my breath coming in hard satisfied pants, jeans around my ankles, shirt ripped and breasts bare.

"Thanks for the quickie, doc, but like I said, this changes nothing," he tugs my jeans up, surprising me with his consideration for my decency. My shirt and bra are ruined, the best he can do is pull the torn pieces together, whistling as he grabs my other arm and slams it onto the chair, pulling the restraints tight. My ankles next, each one tethered to the chair legs within moments, showcasing his familiarity with the procedure.

"Now this," he tells me, fiddling with a few dials on a small box-like machine I barely noticed earlier, "Is my special cocktail, sure to keep a special girl like you smiling. Made it myself," he preens, connecting a fresh canister to the device, "Don't worry, I'll leave you somewhere fun. You've been a laugh, Harley," he grins, "I'll let you go out with a bang."

"Does it hurt?" I realize I sound more curious than scared. Still riding the euphoric high of the best orgasm I've ever had, the after tremors still pulsing through my skin. I'm sort of resigned that this is how it ends. Could be worse, tossed in some alley, a grin cut into my mouth like one of his endless victims, unremarkable and ignored. Joker Toxin always gets press coverage, my corpse will be on the evening and morning news for certain.

"Never tried it myself, guess you'll have to tell me," He slips the mask over my face, humming as he presses a few dials and the machine whirls to life, green fog pumping out. I hold my breath, fighting the inevitable, but it only lasts so long, and I inhale a jagged mouthful of dark green air, gagging on the toxic taste. I choke, hacking as I suck in mouthful after mouthful, eyes watering and tearing. My lungs burn, like I've been smoking, and I gag on the bitter taste, breathing in sharp little breaths, wondering when the pain and death part kick in.

It takes a few long, hacking moments before the Joker scowls, kicking the machine. We look at each other, and I swear I can see the same question swimming in his bloodshot blues as it swirls around my brain. Why isn't it killing me? Does it usually take this long? Given the snarl on his mouth as he knocks the machine around, I'm guessing not.

"Well, well, well," he cocks his head at me, yanking the mask off and letting the toxic gas pump freely into the air, unheaded. He rolls up the purple sleeves of his dress shirt, popping down on my lap, his ringed finger tracing the outline of my mouth considering, "What have we here…?"

I let out a few hacking coughs, eyes still tearing.

"That's your best trick yet, doc," he murmurs, finger sipping down my lips and his face suddenly very close to mine, my eyes focus blurrily on the black tattoo on his forehead, "Tell me, how'd ya do it?"

"Do it?" I think about it. Then I remember Ivy, her cool southern drawl explaining what she put into me, the sting of the needle followed by the vivid hallucinations. I bite my lip, staring up at him with a smile, "I got some medicine from my friend, she said it would protect me against toxins."

"Such a good friend," he remarks with distaste, "This changes things, makes you a little more interesting." He puts up two fingers, indicating the small amount of interest of his I've gained. "So tell me Harley," he mouths the words against my own lips, his breath hot against the skin, "who's your friend?"

"You already met," I tell him wryly, "Sexy redhead, likes her plants."

He frowns, standing up and pulling off the restraints, one by one, I rub my arms, the leather digs in tight, leaving marks. He undoes my legs next, pulling me up with a jerk, so that our bodies press tight. I lick my lips, staring up at him in wonder and desire, my head pounding but my body feels quivery.

"Think you could help re-introduce me?"

"Anything," I blurt out, cutting myself off shyly, amending my voice so it's not such a breathy, panty mess of hormones and need. "Anything for you, Mister J."

He cocks his head down at me, calculating, his lips working in a flash between his usual manic grin and a uncustomary frown, he settles on his maddened smile and I fight the urge to trace his mouth like he did mine. My hand reaches up, entranced, and he slaps it away with a tsk.

"Harls, Harley, Harlequin…" he mutters to himself, pushing me away with a disgusted sigh.

"So what now?" I ask curiously, the euphoria is starting to fade. I can feel all my sore places, the icky layer of sweat coating my skin, the way my blonde hair is matted and lank. I'm a mess. A hot crazy mess, but still alive somehow, so that's something I guess. Still, I'd give my left foot for a long hot shower and a set of fresh clothes.

"Now I need to find a new present for Batsy, see, you were going to be a real special treat, Harls. Good ol' Bats is getting real lax in his old age, thinking he's cleaning up the streets, and I can't have that. I was going to create a real mess," he muses whimsically, a far away glint in his eyes, "Gunpowder, blood, the works. Nothing but the best for the best, ya see? He needs me to keep him busy, and I got a lot to give, darling, so much," he's in full rant mode, it lights him up, like a Christmas tree. Talking about the caped crusader always does something electrical to him, makes him shimmer and gleam in a way that makes a girl crazy with envy. I want to do that to him. Make him all bright and vicious.

"Now I need a new centerpiece, something to catch the eye, ya know?" He cackles, a wild and demented sound that punches through the air in a vibrant trill. "So many people to kill, so little time. Chaos doesn't always create itself, sometimes it needs a little nudge, and other times it needs a bomb big enough to reduce First Gotham Bank to rubble. I've got just the bomb, turns out, and it's going to be a real show."

"And then you go and become all immune to my precious Toxin," he spits, suddenly angry, rage looks so good on him, intensifying his natural charisma. it pours off his lean figure, blazing in his gas blue eyes. I flinch, expecting the blow, almost welcoming it, but he lets his arm droop, looking suddenly deflated. "Now I gotta go kill someone, but who? I mean, you're pretty little mug has been all over the news. He _saved_ you, and I was going to show him that nobody is safe from me, he needs the reminder, really, I'm doing him a favor. It was _perfect_. I need perfect, doll, and I won't settle for less." He's pacing, showing his agitation like a caged animal.

I raise a finger, a light bulb popping up in my brain. He ignores me entirely, muttering to himself incomprehensibly, only the words 'Batsy' and 'perfect' seem to pop out of the spew of frustration tumbling from his brightly clenched teeth.

"What if we," his eyes snap to me, furious, as if just realizing I still exist. As if those words I just spoke are a red target on my head, urging him to kill me and be done with it. I know the reminder isn't pleasant. I do feel bad, disappointing him crumbles something inside me, making me feel too hot and itchy. Like I'm wearing a rough wool sweater in the middle of July heat, it chafes and itches, and scratching it only causes a rash.

"WE?" He explodes, and I don't do something stupid like dodge the blow, my body crumples around his fist, taking it in, absorbing his wrath. The air puffs out of me in a jagged pant. "WE? THERE IS NO 'WE'!" He laughs, with the crack of the back of his hand he's sneering down at me with malice, "You are the scum under my shoe, the fly in my soup, you stupid bitch."

I back away, scrambling a bit in fear. He's crazy, and homicidal, and while I love that about him I don't love pain enough to welcome it.

"What if _you_ ," I amend hastily, "do in that judge that just gave all those falsely accused death row guys a free pass?" The words tumble out of me, slipping out faster and faster as if to take up less of his time.

"I mean, he spared all those innocent people, and rumor says Batman provided some of the evidence that released them. All those framed people being tortured, and now they get to reenter society? Seems like such a waste…" My words stutter off lamely, with each spoken syllable he's been taking a menacing step forward, until it's almost like we're dancing. He moves forward, and in sync, I slide back, my eyes wide as they get lost in his baby blues, which narrow into flinty slits of disgust, thinner and thinner with each word that slips out from my motor mouth. Dexterous, slender fingers bunch up the tatters of my shirt, half lifting me from the floor, his heavy breaths fanning my face, his lips smiling so cruelly it makes me want to cry, or kiss him, I can't really tell which.

He hums, the sound vibrating from his mouth and chest, eyes rolling to the side and I startle as he abruptly lets me go, my body flailing wildly for a second without his strength lifting to the tips of my toes. He giggles, nefarious delight, and it's so infectious I crack a grin so wide my mouth feels like it might crack.

"I just realized, there's a judge, a special girl. Someone I can really sink my teeth into," he bears his glittering grill meaningfully. He cackles again, shaking himself like a wet dog, all his angst fading away to his usual mad glee. "Hey doc," he grins at me, and I feel like the sun has just burst through the clouds, illuminating and warming me inside out. "When's the last time you got all gussied up and let a real man take you somewhere not nice?"

I giggle, giddy that he plans to include me. My hands clap together broadcasting my glee. "It's been ages, I thought you'd never ask." I really thought that. I mean, what use does a guy like the Joker have for me? The fly in his soup? Compared to his evil, I'm just a drop of bad intentions in a bucket of filth, but he still notices me. _He_ notices _me._

"I didn't ask," he growls, grabbing my jaw and pressing into my skin until I wince, "I'm tellin'." I nod slowly, still smiling despite the threat in his voice and grip.

"So obedient," he purrs, "Perhaps there's hope for you yet, my little Harlequin." I love when he calls me that I decide instantly, he's never said it like that before but now that he has I know it's something I would kill to hear again. Literally. "Now let's see what we can do about turning this sad frumpy little puppet into something worthy of being seen with my magnificent self."

"I love the way you sweet talk, Mister J," I breathe, leaning into his punishing grip. He chuckles.

"Oh puddin', you ain't seen nothing yet."


End file.
